
Book Jl_05_.. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 






KEATS'S POEMS 

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Cabinet C'Uition 



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THE COMPLETE POETICAL 
WORKS OF 

JOHN KEATS 



Cabinet Cl;tittton 




Btberffi6c:Pr^ 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

(CbE 0iVJcr?ibE ^xzsSy €ambnb0e 



55890 



OCT 3 1900 

copyright •ntry 

StCCND COPY. 

OROtH DIVISION, 
OCT 13 I90U 



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COPYRIGHT, 1900 
BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 



v 



PUBLISHEES' NOTE 

The editor of the Cambridge Edition of The 
Complete Poetical Works and Letters of John Keats 
made a careful examination of the volumes pub- 
lished by Keats during his life, and also of the 
posthumously published poems, with a view to 
securing an authoritative text. He also studied an 
arrangement of the poetical works which should be 
chronological as regards the body of his poetry, and 
should discriminate in a measure between his seri- 
ous and acknowledged work and his pastime. The 
arrangement and the text of this Cabinet Edition 
are those of the Cambridge, and the contents 
include the whole of Keats's verse. 

Autumn, 1900. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

PAGE 
EARLY POEMS. 

Imitation of Spenseb 1 

On Death 2 

To Chattebton 2 

To Byron 3 

' Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain ' . . . . 3 

To Some Ladies 5 

On receiving- a Curious Shell and a Copy of Verses 

FROM the Same Ladies G 

Written on the Day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left Prison . 8 

To Hope 8 

Ode to Apollo 10 

Hymn to Apollo 11 

To A Young Lady who sent me a Laurel Crown ... 12 

Sonnet : ' How many bards gild the lapses of time ' . . 13 
Sonnet : ' Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and 

there' 13 

Spenserian Stanza, written at the Close op Canto II., 

Book V. , of ' The Faerie Queene ' 14 

On leaving Some Friends at an Early Hour 14 

On first looking into Chapman's Homer ' . 15 

Epistle to George Felton Mathew 15 

To : ' Hadst thou liv'd in days op old ' 18 

Sonnet : ' As from the darkening gloom a silver dove ' 20 

Sonnet to Solitude 20 

Sonnet : ' To one who has been long in city pent ' . . 21 

To a Friend who sent me Some Roses 21 

Sonnet : ' Oh ! how I love, on a fair summer's eve ' . . 22 

'I stood tiptoe upon a little hill' 22 

Sleep and Poetry 29 

Epistle to my Brother George 41 

To my Brother George 45 

To ' Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs ' 46 

Specimen op an Induction to a Poem 46 

Calidore : A Fragment 48 

Epistle to Charles Cowden Clarke 53 

To My Brothers 57 

Addressed to Benjamin Robert Haydon. 

I. ' Great spirits now on earth are sojourning ' . . 57 

II. ' Highmindedness, a jealousy for good ' 58 



viii TABLE OF CONTENTS 

To Kosciusko 58 

To G. A. W 59 

Stanzas : ' In a drear-nighted December '...... 59 

Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition 60 

Sonnet : ' Happy is England ! I could be content ' ... 61 

On the Grasshopper and Cricket 61 

Sonnet : ' After dark vapours ha\'e oppress'd our plains ' 62 
Written on the Blank Space at the end of Chaucer's 

Tale of ' The Floure and the Lefe ' 62 

On Seeing the Elgin Marbles 63 

To Haydon (^VITH the preceding sonnet) 63 

To Leigh Hunt, Esq 64 

On the Sea 64 

Lines : ' Unfelt, unheard, unseen ' 65 

On ' Think not op it, sweet one, so ' 65 

On a Picture of Leander '.66 

On Leigh Hunt's Poem ' The Story of Rimini ' .... 66 

Sonnet : ' When I have fears that I may cease to be ' . 67 

On seeing a Lock op Milton's Hair 67 

On sitting down to read ' King Lear ' once again ... 69 

Lines on the Mermaxd Tavern 69 

Robin Hood 70 

To the Nile 72 

To Spenser 72 

Song written on a Blank Page in Beaumont and Fletch- 
er's Works between ' Cupid's Revenge ' and ' The Two 

Noble Kinsmen' 73 

Fragment : ' Welcome Joy and welcome Sorrow ' ... 74 

What the Thrush said 75 

Written in Answer to a Sonnet ending thus : — 

' Dark eyes are dearer far 
Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell.' ... 75 

To John Hamilton Reynolds 70 

The Human Seasons 76 

ENDYMION 77 

THE POEMS OF 1818-1819. 

Isabella, or the Pot of Basil 192 

To Homer 209 

Fragment op an Ode to Maia 209 

Song : ' Hush, hush ! tread softly ! hush, hush, my dear ! ' 210 
Verses written during a Tour in Scotland. 

I. On Visiting the Tomb op Burns 211 

II. To AiLSA Rock 211 

III. Written in the Cottage where Buens was born . 212 

IV. At Fingal's Cave 213 

V. Written upon the Top of Ben Nevis 214 



TABLE OF CONTENTS ix 

Translation from a Sonnet op Ronsard 215 

To A Lady seen for a Few Moments at Vauxhall . . .215 

Fancy 216 

Ode : ' Bards of Passion and of Mirth ' 218 

Song : ' I had a dove and the sweet dove died ' . . . .219 

Ode on Melancholy 220 

The Eve of St. Agnes 221 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 234 

Ode on Indolence 236 

Sonnet : ' Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will 



tell 



238 



Ode to Fanny 238 

A Dream, after reading Dante's Episode of Paolo and 

Francesca 240 

La Belle Dame sans Merci 240 

Chorus of Fairies 242 

Faery Songs: 

I. Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! 246 

II. Ah ! WOE is me ! poor silver- wing ! 246 

On Fame 247 

Another on Fame 248 

To Sleep 248 

Ode to Psyche 249 

Sonnet : ' If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd ' 251 

Ode to a Nightingale 251 

Lamia 254 

DRAMAS. 

Otho the Great : a tragedy in five acts 275 

King Stephen : A dramatic fragment 340 

THE EVE OF ST. MARK 348 

HYPERION : A FRAGMENT 352 

TO AUTUMN 377 

VERSES TO FANNY BRAWNE. 
Sonnet : ' The day is gone and all its sweets are gone ' 379 

Lines to Fanny 379 

To Fanny : ' I cry your mercy — pity — love — aye, love ! ' 381 
THE CAP AND BELLS ; OR, THE JEALOUSIES . . .382 

THE LAST SONNET 410 

SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE. 

I. Hyperion : A Vision 411 

II. Fragments. 

I. 'Where's the Poet? show him! show him' . 425 

II. Modern Love 425 

III. Fragment of 'The Castle Builder' . . . .426 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

IV. Extracts from an Opera. 

' o ! were i one of the olympian twelve ' . 427 

Daisy's Song 428 

Folly's Song 428 

' O, I AM frighten' D WITH MOST HATEFUL 

thoughts ! ' 429 

Song : ' The stranger lighted from his 

STEED ' 429 

'Asleep! O sleep a little while, white 

pearl!' 430 

III. Familiar Verses. 

Stanzas to Miss Wylie 430 

Epistle to John Hamilton Reynolds 431 

A Draught of Sunshine 434 

At Teignmouth 435 

The Devon Maid 43G 

Acrostic : Georgiana Augusta Keats 437 

Meg Merrilies 438 

A Song about myself 439 

To Thomas Keats 442 

The Gadfly 443 

On hearing the Bagpipe and seeing ' The Stranger ' 

PLAYED AT INVERARY 445 

Lines written in the Highlands after a Visit to 

BuRNs's Country 44G 

Mrs. Cameron and Ben Nevis 448 

Sharing Eve's Apple 451 

A Prophecy : to George Keats in America . . . 452 

A Little Extempore 453 

Spenserian Stanzas on Charlks Armitage Brown . 456 

Two or three Posies 457 

A Party of Lovers 458 

To George Keats : written in sickness 458 

On Oxford 459 

To a Cat • . . 459 



THE POEMS OF JOHN KEATS 



EARLY POEMS 

IMITATION OF SPENSER 

Now Morning from her orient chamber came, 
And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill ; 
Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame, 
Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill ; 
Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distil, 
And after parting beds of simple flowers, 
By many streams a little lake did fill, 
Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, 
And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers. 

There the kingfisher saw his plumage bright, 
Vying with fish of brilliant dye below ; 
Whose silken fins, and golden scales' light 
Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow : 
There saw the swan his neck of arched snow. 
And oar'd himself along with majesty ; 
Sparkled his jetty eyes ; his feet did show 
Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony. 
And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously. 

Ah ! could I tell the wonders of an isle 
That in that fairest lake had placed been, 
I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile ; 
Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen : 



2 EARLY POEMS 

For sure so fair a place was never seen, 
Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye : 
It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen 
Of the bright waters ; or as when on high, 
Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the coerulean 
sky. 

And all around it dipp'd luxuriously 
Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide, 
Which, as it were in gentle amity. 
Rippled delighted up the flowery side ; 
As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried. 
Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem ! 
Haply it was the workings of its pride, 
In strife to throw upon the shore a gem 
Outvying all the buds in Flora's diadem. 



ON DEATH 

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, 
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by ? 

The transient pleasures as a vision seem. 
And yet we think the greatest pain's to die. 

How strange it is that man on earth should roam. 
And lead a life of woe, but not forsake 

His rugged path ; nor dare he view alone 
His future doom, which is but to awake. 



TO CHATTERTON 

O Chatteeton ! how very sad thy fate! 

Dear child of sorrow — son of misery ! 

How soon the film of death obscur'd that eye, 
Whence Genius mildly flash'd, and high debate. 



WOMAN ! WHEN I BEHOLD THEE 3 

How soon that voice, majestic and elate, 
Melted in dying numbers ! Oh ! how nigh 
Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die 

A half -blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate. 

But this is past : thou art among the stars 
Of highest Heaven : to the rolling spheres 

Thou sweetly singest : nought thy hymning mars, 
Above the ingrate world and human fears. 

On earth the good man base detraction bars 
From thy fair name, and waters it with tears. 



TO BYRON 

Bykon ! how sweetly sad thy melody ! 

Attuning still the soul to tenderness. 

As if soft Pity, with unusual stress. 
Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, 
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die. 

O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less 

Delightful : thou thy griefs dost dress 
With a bright halo, shining beamily, 
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil, 

Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow, 
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail. 

And like fair veins in sable marble flow ; 
Still warble, dying swan ! still tell the tale, 

The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe. 



'WOMAN! WHEN I BEHOLD THEE 
FLIPPANT, VAIN' 

Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain. 
Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies ; 
Without that modest softening that enhances 

The downcast eye, repentant of the pain 



4 EARLY POEMS 

That its mild liglit creates to iieal again : 
E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances, 
E'en then my soul with exultation dances 

For that to love, so long, I 've dormant lain: 

But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender, 
Heavens ! how desperately do I adore 

Thy winning graces ; — to be thy defender 
I hotly burn — to be a Calidore — 

A very Red Cross Knight — a stout Leander — 
Might I be lov'd by thee like these of yore. 

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair ; 

Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy 
breast. 

Are things on which the dazzled senses rest 
Till the fond, fixSd eyes forget they stare. 
From such fine pictures, Heavens ! I cannot dare 

To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd 

They be of what is worthy, — though not drest 
In lovely modesty, and virtues rare. 
Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark ; 

These lures I straight forget, — e'en ere I dine, 
Or thrice my palate moisten : but when I mark 

Such charms with mild intelligences shine, 
My ear is open like a greedy shark. 

To catch the tunings of a voice divine. 

Ah ! who can e'er forget so fair a being ? 

Who can forget her half -re tiring sweets ? 

God ! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats 
For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing, 
Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing, 

Will never give him pinions, who intreats 

Such innocence to ruin, — who vilely cheats 
A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing 
One's thoughts from such a beauty ; when I hear 

A lay that once I saw her hand awake, 



TO SOME LADIES 

Her form seems floating palpable, and near : 
Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take 

A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear, 
And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake. 



TO SOME LADIES 

What though, while the wonders of nature ex- 
ploring, 

I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend ; 
Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring. 

Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend : 

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain-stream 
rushes, 
With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove ; 
Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate 
gushes. 
Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews. 

Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling ? 

Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare ? 
Ah ! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling, 

Responsive to sylphs, in the moon-beamy air. 

'T is morn, and the flowers with dew are yet droop- 
ing, 

I see you are treading the verge of the sea : 
And now ! ah, I see it — you just now are stooping 

To pick up the keepsake intended for me. 

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending, 
Had brought me a gem from the fretwork of 
heaven ; 
And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly 
blending. 
The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given ; 



6 EARLY POEMS 

It had not created a warmer emotion 
Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with 
from you ; 
Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the 
ocean, 
Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly 
threw. 

For, indeed, 't is a sweet and peculiar pleasure, 
(And blissful is he who such happiness finds,) 

To possess but a span of the hour of leisure. 
In elegant, pure, and aerial minds. 



ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL AND 
A COPY OF VERSES FROM THE SAME 
LADIES 

Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem 
Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain ? 

Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem, 
When it flutters in sunbeams that shine through a 
fountain ? 

Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine ? 

That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold ? 
And splendidly mark'd with the story divine 

Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold ? 

Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing ? 

Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is ? 
Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing ? 

And wear'st thou the shield of the fam'd Brito- 
martis ? 

What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave, 
Embroidered with many a spring peering flower ? 

Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave ? 
And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower ? 



ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL 7 

Ah ! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art 
crown'd ; 

Full many the glories that brighten thy youth ! 
I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound 

In magical powers to bless, and to soothe. 

On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair 
A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain : 

And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare 
Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain. 

This canopy mark : 't is the work of a fay ; 

Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish, 
When lovely Titania was far, far away. 

And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish. 

There, oft would he bring from his soft- sighing 
lute 
Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightin- 
gales listen'd ; 
The wondering spirits of heaven were mute. 
And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft 
glistened. 

In this little dome, all those melodies strange, 
Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh ; 

Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change ; 
Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die. 

So, when I am in a voluptuous vein, 
I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose. 

And list to the tale pf the wreath, and the chain, 
Till its echoes depart ; then I sink to repose. 

Adieu, valiant Eric ! with joy thou art crown'd ; 

Full many the glories that brighten thy youth, 
I too have my blisses, which richly abound 

In magical powers, to bless and to soothe. 



EARLY POEMS 



WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. 
LEIGH HUNT LEFT PRISON 

What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state. 

Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he, 

In his immortal spirit, been as free 
As the sky-searching lark, and as elate. 
Minion of grandeur ! think you he did wait ? 

Think you he nought hut prison-walls did see. 

Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key ? 
Ah, no ! far happier, nobler was his fate ! 
In Spenser's halls he strayed, and bowers fair, 

Culling enchanted flowers ; and he flew 
With daring Milton through the fields of air : 

To regions of his own his genius true 
Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair 

When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew ? 



TO HOPE 

When by my solitary hearth I sit. 

And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom ; 
When no fair dreams before my ' mind's eye ' flit. 
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom ; 
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed. 
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. 

Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night. 

Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright 
ray. 
Should sad Despondency my musings fright. 
And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away, 
Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy 

roof. 
And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof. 



TO HOPE 9 

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair, 

Strive for her son to seize my careless heart ; 
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air, 
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart : 
Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage 

bright, 
And fright him as the morning frightens night ! 

Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear 
Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow, 
O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer ; 
Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow : 
Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed, 
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head ! 

Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain, 

From cruel parents, or relentless fair ; 
O let me think it is not quite in vain 
To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air ! 
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, 
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. 

In the long vista of the years to roll, 

Let me not see our country's honoiu- fade : 
O let me see our land retain her soul. 
Her pride, her freedom ; and not freedom's shade. 
From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed — 
Beneath thy pinions canopy my head ! 

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest. 

Great Liberty ! how great in plain attire 1 
With the base purple of a court oppress'd, 
Bowing her head, and ready to expire : 
But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings 
That fill the skies with silver glitterings ! 

And as, in sparkling maj esty, a star 

Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud 



lo EARLY POEMS 

Briglitening the half-veil'd face of heaven afar : 
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, 
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed, 
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head. 



ODE TO APOLLO 

In thy western halls of gold 

When thou sittest in thy state, 
Bards, that erst sublimely told 

Heroic deeds, and sang of fate, 
With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, 
Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant 
fires. 

Here Homer with his nervous arms 

Strikes the twanging harp of war, 
And even the western splendor warms, 

While the trumpets sound afar : 
But, what creates the most intense surprise, 
His soul looks out through renovated eyes. 

Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells 
The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre : 

The soul delighted on each accent dwells, — 
Enraptur'd dwells, — not daring to respire, 
The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre. 

'T is awful silence then again ; 

Expectant stand the spheres ; 

Breathless the laurell'd peers. 
Nor move, till ends the lofty strain, 
Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease. 
And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace. 

Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand. 
And quickly forward spring 



HYMN TO APOLLO ii 

The Passions — a terrific band — 

And each vibrates the string 
That with its tyrant temper best accords, 
While from their Master's lips pour forth the inspir- 
ing words. 

A silver trumpet Spenser blows, 
And, as its martial notes to silence flee, 

From a virgin chorus flows 
A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity. 

'T is still ! Wild warblings from the iEolian lyre 
Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire. 

Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers 

Float along the pleased air. 
Calling youth from idle slumbers, 

Rousing them from Pleasure's lair : — 
Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move, 
And melt the soul to pity and to love. 

But when Tfiou joinest with the Nine, 
And all the powers of song combine, 

We listen here on earth : 
The dying tones that fill the air, 
And charm the ear of evening fair, 
From thee, Great God of Bards, receive their hea- 
venly birth. 



HYMN TO APOLLO 

God of the golden bow, 

And of the golden lyre. 
And of the golden hair. 
And of the golden fire. 
Charioteer 
Of the patient year, 
Where — where slept thine ire, 



12 EARLY POEMS 

When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath, 

Thy laurel, thy glory, 

The light of thy story, 
Or was I a worm — too low crawling, for death ? 
O Delphic Apollo ! 

The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd, 

The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd ; 
The eagle's feathery mane 
For wrath became stiff en'd — the sound 
Of breeding thunder 
Went drowsily under, 
Muttering to be unbound. 
O why didst thou pity, and for a worm 
Why touch thy soft lute 
Till the thunder was mute, 
Why was not I crush'd — such a pitiful germ ? 
O Delphic Apollo ! 

The Pleiades were up, 

Watching the silent air ; 
The seeds and roots in the Earth 
Were swelling for summer fare ; 
The Ocean, its neighbour. 
Was at its old labour. 
When, who — who did dare 
To tie, like a madman, thy plant round his brow, 
And grin and look proudly, 
And blaspheme so loudly, 
And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now ? 
O Delphic Apollo ? 



TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A 
LAUREL CROWN 

Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear 
From my glad bosom, — now from gloominess 



SONNET 13 

I mount for ever — not an atom less 
Than the proud laurel shall content my bier. 
No ! by the eternal stars ! or why sit here 

In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press 

Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless 
By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear. 
Lo ! who dares say, ' Do this ? ' Who dares call 
down 

My will from its high purpose ? Who say, 
' Stand,' 
Or ' Go ? ' This mighty moment I would frown 

On abject Caesars — not the stoutest band 
Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown : 

Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand ! 



SONNET 

How many bards gild the lapses of time ! 
A few of them have ever been the food 
Of my delighted fancy, — I could brood 

Over their beauties, earthly, or' sublime : 

And often, when I sit me down to rhyme. 

These will in throngs before my mind intrude : 
But no confusion, no disturbance rude 

Do they occasion ; 't is a pleasing chime. 

So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store ; 
The songs of birds — the whisp'ring of the leaves — 
The voice of waters — the great bell that heaves 

With solemn sound, — and thousand others more, 
That distance of recognizance bereaves, 

Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar. 



SONNET 

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there 
Among the bushes half leafless, and dry ; 



14 EARLY POEMS 

The stars look very cold about the sky, 
And I have many miles on foot to fare. 
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air, 

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily, 

Or of those silver lamps that burn on high, 
Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair : 
For I am brimful of the friendliness 

That in a little cottage I have found ; 
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress, 

And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd ; 
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress, 

And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd. 



SPENSERIAN STANZA 

WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF CANTO II. BOOK V. 
OF * THE FAERIE QUEENE ' 

In after-time, a sage of mickle lore 
Yclep'd Typographus, the Giant took. 
And did refit his limbs as heretofore, 
And made him read in many a learned book. 
And into many a lively legend look ; 
Thereby in goodly themes so training him. 
That all his brutishness he quite forsook. 
When, meeting Artegall and Talus grim. 
The one he struck stone-blind, the other's eyes wox 
dim. 



ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS AT AN 
EARLY HOUR 

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean 
On heap'd-up flowers, in regions clear and far ; 
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star. 

Or hand of hymning angel, when 't is seen 



EPISTLE TO MATHEW 15 

The silver strings of heavenly harp atween : 
And let there glide by many a pearly car, 
Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond j ar, 

And half-discover'd wings, and glances keen. 

The while let music wander round my ears, 
And as it reaches each delicious ending, 
Let me write down a line of glorious tone, 

And full of many wonders of the spheres : 
For what a height my spirit is contending ! 
'T is not content so soon to be alone. 



ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S 
HOMER 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, 

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 

Roimd many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 

That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne : 

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 

When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 

He star'd at the Pacific — and all his men 
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

EPISTLE TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW 

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, 
And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song ; 
Nor can remembrance, Mathew ! bring to view 
A fate more pleasing, a delight more true 
Than that in which the brother Poets joy'd, 
Who, with combined powers, their wit employ'd 



i6 EARLY POEMS 

To raise a trophy to the drama's muses. 

The thought of this great partnership diffuses 

Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling 

Of all that 's high, and great, and good, and healing. 

Too partial friend! fain would I follow thee n 
Past each horizon of fine poesy ; 
Fain would I echo back each pleasant note 
As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float 
'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted, 
Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted : 
But 't is impossible ; far different cares 
Beckon me sternly from soft 'Lydian airs,' 
And hold my faculties so long in thrall. 
That I am oft in doubt whether at all 20 

I shall again see Phoebus in the morning : 
Or flush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning ! 
•Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream ; 
Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam ; 
Or again witness what with thee I've seen. 
The dew by fairy feet swept from the green, 
After a night of some quaint jubilee 
Which every elf and fay had come to see : 
When bright processions took their airy march 
Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch. 30 

But might I now each passing moment give 
To the coy Muse, with me she would not live 
In this dark city, nor would condescend 
'Mid contradictions her delights to lend. 
Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind. 
Ah ! surely it must be whene'er I find 
Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic, 
That often must have seen a poet frantic ; 
Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing. 
And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing ; 40 
Where the dark-leav'd laburnum's drooping clusters 
Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres, 



EPISTLE TO MATHEW 17 

And intertwined the cassia's arms unite, 
With its own drooping buds, but very white. 
Where on one side are covert branches hung, 
'Mong which the nightingales have always simg 
In leafy quiet : where to pry, aloof 
Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof, 
Would be to find where violet beds were nestling, 
And where the bee with cowslip bells was wres- 
tling. 50 
There must be too a ruin dark and gloomy. 
To say ' Joy not too much in all that's bloomy.' 

Yet this is vain — O Mathew, lend thy aid 
To find a place where I may greet the maid — 
Where we may soft humanity put on. 
And sit, and rhyme and think on Chatterton ; 
And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet him 
Four laurell'd spirits, heavenward to entreat him. 
With reverence would we speak of all the sages 
Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages: 60 
And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness. 
And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness 
To those who strove with the bright golden wing 
Of genius, to flap away each sting 
Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell 
Of those who in the cause of freedom fell ; 
Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell ; 
Of him whose name to ev'ry heart 's a solace, 
High-minded and unbending William Wallace. 
While to the rugged north our musing turns, 70 

We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns. 

Felton ! without incitements such as these. 
How vain for me the niggard Muse to tease : 
For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace. 
And make ' a sunshine in a shady place : ' 
For thou wast once a flow'ret blooming wild, 
Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefil'd, 



i8 EARLY POEMS 

Whence gush the streams of song : In happy hour 

Came chaste Diana from her shady bower, 

Just as the sun was from the east uprising ; 80 

And, as for him some gift she was devising, 

Beheld thee, pluck'd thee, cast thee in the stream 

To meet her glorious brother's greeting beam. 

I marvel much that thou hast never told 

How, from a flower, into a fish of gold 

Apollo chang'd thee : how thou next didst seem 

A black-ey'd swan upon the widening stream ; 

And when thou first didst in that mirror trace 

The placid features of a human face : 

That thou hast never told thy travels strange, 90 

And all the wonders of the mazy range 

O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands ; 

Kissing thy daily food from Naiads' pearly hands. 



TO 

Hadst thou liv'd in days of old, 

O what wonders had been told 

Of thy lively countenance, 

And thy humid eyes that dance 

In the midst of their own brightness 

In the very fane of lightness. 

Over which thine eyebrows, leaning, 

Picture out each lovely meaning : 

In a dainty bend they lie, 

Like to streaks across the sky. 

Or the feathers from a crow, 

Fallen on a bed of snow. 

Of thy dark hair, that extends 

Into many graceful bends : 

As the leaves of Hellebore 

Turn to whence they sprung before. 

And behind each ample curl 

Peeps the richness of a pearl. 



TO 19 

Downward too flows many a tress 

With a glossy waviness ; 20 

Full, and round like globes that rise 

From the censer to the skies 

Through sunny air. Add, too, the sweetness 

Of thy honied voice ; the neatness 

Of thine ankle lightly turn'd : 

With those beauties scarce discern'd, 

Kept with such sweet privacy, 

That they seldom meet the eye 

Of the little loves that fly 

Round about with eager pry. 30 

Saving when, with freshening lave. 

Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave ; 

Like twin water-lilies, born 

In the coolness of the morn. 

O, if thou hadst breathed then, 

Now the Muses had been ten. 

Couldst thou wish for lineage higher 

Than twin-sister of Thalia ? 

At least for ever, evermore 

Will I call the Graces four. 40 

Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry 

Lifted up her lance on high. 

Tell me what thou wouldst have been ? 

Ah ! I see the silver sheen 

Of thy broider'd, floating vest 

Cov'ring half thine ivory breast : 

Which, O heavens ! I should see, 

But that cruel destiny 

Has plac'd a golden cuirass there ; 

Keeping secret what is fair. 50 

Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested 

Thy locks in knightly casque are rested : 

O'er which bend four milky plumes 

Like the gentle lily's blooms 

Springing from a costly vase. 



20 EARLY POEMS 

See with what a stately pace 

Comes thine alabaster steed ; 

Servant of heroic deed ! 

O'er his loins his trappings glow 

Like the northern lights on snow. 60 

Mount his back ! thy sword unsheath ! 

Sign of the enchanter's death ; 

Bane of every wicked spell ; 

Silencer of dragon's yell, 

Alas ! thou this wilt never do : 

Thou art an enchantress too, 

And wilt surely never spill 

Blood of those whose eyes can kill. 



SONNET 

As from the darkening gloom a silver dove 
Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light, 
On pinions that nought moves but pure delight. 

So fled thy soul into the realms above, 

Regions of peace and everlasting love ; 
Where happy spirits, crown'd with circlets bright 
Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight, 

Taste the high joy none but the blest can prove. 

There thou or joinest the immortal quire 
In melodies that even heaven fair 

Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire, 

Of the omnipotent Father, cleav'st the air 

On holy message sent — What pleasure 's higher ? 
Wherefore does any grief our joy impair ? 

SONNET TO SOLITUDE 

O Solitude ! if I must with thee dwell, 
Let it not be among the jumbled heap 
Of murky buildings ; climb with me the steep, — 

Nature's observatory, — whence the dell, 



TO A FRIEND 21 

Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, 
May seem a span ; let me thy vigils keep 
'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift 
leap 

Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell. 

But though I '11 gladly trace these scenes with thee, 
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, 
Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd, 

Is my soul's pleasure ; and it sure must be 
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, 

When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. 



SONNET 

To one who has been long in city pent, 
'T is very sweet to look into the fair 
And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer 

Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 

Who is more happy, when, with hearts content, 
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 

And gentle tale of love and languishment ? 

Returning home at evening, with an ear 
Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 

Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, 
He mourns that day so soon has glided by : 

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
That falls through the clear ether silently. 



TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME SOME 
ROSES 

As late I rambled in the happy fields. 
What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew 
From his lush clover covert ; when anew 

Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields : 



22 EARLY POEMS 

I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, 

A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that 
threw 

Its sweets upon the summer : graceful it grew 
As is the wand that Queen Titania wields. 
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy, 

I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd : 
But when, O Wells ! thy roses came to me, 

My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd : 
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea 

Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness 
unquell'd. 

SONNET 

Oh ! how I love, on a fair summer's eve, 
When streams of light pour down the golden 

west, 
And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest 
The silver clouds, far — far away to leave 
All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve 
From little cares ; to find, with easy quest, 
A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest, 
And there into delight my soul deceive, 
There warm my breast with patriotic lore. 
Musing on Milton's fate — on Sydney's bier — 
Till their stern forms before my mind arise : 
Perhaps on wings of Poesy upsoar, 
Full often dropping a delicious tear, 
When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes. 



'I STOOD TIPTOE UPON A LITTLE 
HILL' 

' Places of nestling green, for poets made.' 

Leigh Hunt, The Story of Rimini. 

I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill, y 

The air was cooling, and so very still ^ 



I STOOD TIPTOE 23 

That the sweet buds which with a modest pride 

Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, 

Their scantly -leaved and finely tapering stems, 

Had not yet lost those starry diadems 

Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. 

The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn, 

And fresh from the clear brook ; sweetly they slept 

On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept 10 

A little noiseless noise among the leaves, 

Born of the very sigh that silence heaves ; 

For not the faintest motion could be seen 

Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. 

There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye 

To peer about upon variety ; 

Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, 

And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ; 

To picture out the quaint and curious bending 

Of a fresh woodland alley, never-ending ; 20 

Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, 

Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. 

I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free 

As though the fanning wings of Mercury 

Had played upon my heels : I was light-hearted, 

And many pleasures to my vision started ; 

So I straightway began to pluck a posey 

Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy. 

A bush of May flowers with the bees about them ; 
Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them ; 30 
And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, 
And let long grass grow round the roots to keep 

them 
Moist, cool, and green ; and shade the violets, 
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. 

A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined. 
And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind 
Upon their summer thrones ; there too should be 
The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, 



24 EARLY POEMS 

That with a score of light green brethren shoots 
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots : 40 

Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters 
Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters 
The spreading blue-bells : it may haply mourn 
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn 
From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly 
By infant hands, left on the path to die. 

Open afresh your round of starry folds. 
Ye ardent marigolds ! 

Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, 
For great Apollo bids 50 

That in these days your praises should be sung 
On many harps, which he has lately strung ; 
And when again your dewiness he kisses, 
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses : 
So haply when I rove in some far vale. 
His mighty voice may come upon the gale. 

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight : 
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, 
And taper fingers catching at all things. 
To bind them all about with tiny rings. 60 

Linger awhile upon some bending planks 
That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, 
And watch intently Nature's gentle doings : 
They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings. 
How silent comes the water round that bend ; 
Not the minutest whisper does it send 
To the o'erhanging sallows : blades of grass 
Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass. 
Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach 
To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach 70 
A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds ; 
Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, 
Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, 



I STOOD TIPTOE 25 

To taste the luxury of sunny beams 

Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle 

"With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle 

Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. 

If you but scantily hold out the hand, 

That very instant not one will remain ; 

But turn your eye, and they are there again. 80 

The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, 

And cool themselves among the em'rald tresses ; 

The while they cool themselves, they freshness give, 

And moisture, that the bowery green may live : 

So keeping up an interchange of favours, 

Like good men in the truth of their behaviours. 

Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop 

From low-hung branches ; little space they stop ; 

But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek ; 

Then off at once, as in a wanton freak : 90 

Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings, 

Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. 

Were I in such a place, I sure should pray 

That nought less sweet might call my thoughts 

away. 
Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown 
Fanning away the dandelion's down ; 
Than the light music of her nimble toes 
Patting against the sorrel as she goes. 
How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught 
Playing in all her innocence of thought. 100 

O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, 
Watch her half -smiling lips, and downward look ; 
O let me for one moment touch her wrist ; 
Let me one moment to her breathing list ; 
And as she leaves me, may she often turn 
Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne. 
What next ? A tuft of evening primroses, 
O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes ; 
O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, 
But that 'tis ever startled by the leap no 



26 EARLY POEMS 

Of buds into ripe flowers ; or by the flitting 

Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting ; 

Or by the moon lifting her silver rim 

Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim 

Coming into the blue with all her light. 

O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight 

Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers ; 

Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, 

Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams, 

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, 120 

Lover of loneliness, and wandering. 

Of upcast eye, and tender pondering ! 

Thee must I praise above all other glories 

That smile us on to tell delightful stories. 

For what has made the sage or poet write 

But the fair paradise of Nature's light ? 

In the calm grandeur of a sober line, 

We see the waving of the mountain pine ; 

And when a tale is beautifully staid, 

We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade : 130 

When it is moving on luxurious wings, 

The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings : 

Fair dewy roses brush against our faces, 

And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases ; 

O'erhead we see the jasmine and sweet-briar. 

And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire ; 

While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles 

Charms us at once away from all our troubles : 

So that we feel uplifted from the world. 

Walking upon the white clouds wreath'd and curl'd. 

So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went 141 

On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment ; 

What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips 

First touch'd ; what amorous and fondling nips 

They gave each other's cheeks ; with all their sighs, 

And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes : 

The silver lamp, — the ravishment, — the wonder, — 

The darkness, — loneliness, — the fearful thunder : 



I STOOD TIPTOE 27 

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, 
To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne. 150 

So did he feel, who pull'd the boughs aside, 
That we might look into a forest wide, 
To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades 
Coming with softest rustle through the trees ; 
And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet, 
Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet : 
Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled 
Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. 
Poor Nymph, — poor Pan, — how he did weep to 

find 
Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind 160 

Along the reedy stream ; a half -heard strain, 
Full of sweet desolation — balmy pain. 

What first inspired a bard of old to sing 
Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring ? 
In some delicious ramble, he had found 
A little space, with boughs all woven round ; 
And in the midst of all, a clearer pool 
Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool. 
The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping 
Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping. 170 
And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, 
A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride. 
Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness. 
To woo its own sad image into nearness : 
Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move ; 
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love. 
So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot, 
Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy shot ; 
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale 
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale. 180 

Where had he been, from whose warm head out- 
flew 
That sweetest of all songs, that ever new, 



28 EARLY POEMS 

That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness, 

Coming ever to bless 

The wanderer by moonlight ? to him bringing 
Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly sing- 
ing 
From out the middle air, from flowery nests, 
And from the pillowy silkiness that rests 
Full in the speculation of the stars. 
Ah ! surely he had burst our mortal bars ; 190 

Into some wond'rous region he had gone, 
To search for thee, divine Endymion ! 

He was a Poet, sure a lover too, 
Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew 
Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below ; 
And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow 
A hymn from Dian's temple ; while upswelling, 
The incense went to her own starry dwelling. 
But though her face was clear as infant's eyes, 
Though she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice, 200 

The Poet wept at her so piteous fate, 
Wept that such beauty should be desolate : 
So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won. 
And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. 

Queen of the wide air ; thou most lovely queen 
Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen ! 
As thou exceedest all things in thy shine, 
So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. 
O for three words of honey, that I might 
Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night! 210 

Where distant ships do seem to show their keels, 
Phcfibus awhile delay'd his mighty wheels, 
And turn'd to smile upon thy bashful eyes, 
Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. 
The evening weather was so bright, and clear, 
That men of health were of unusual cheer ; 



SLEEP AND POETRY 29 

Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's call, 
Or young Apollo on the pedestal : 
And lovely women were as fair and warm, 
As Venus looking sideways in alarm. 220 

The breezes were ethereal, and pure. 
And crept through half closed lattices to cure 
The languid sick ; it cool'd their fever'd sleep, 
And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. 
Soon they awoke clear-eyed : nor burnt with thirsting^ 
Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting : 
And springing up, they met the wond'ring sight 
Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight ; 
Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare. 
And on their placid foreheads part the hair. 230 

Young men and maidens at each other gaz'd, 
With hands held back, and motionless, amaz'd 
To see the brightness in each other's eyes ; 
And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet surprise, 
Until their tongues were loos'd in poesy. 
Therefore no lover did of anguish die : 
But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken, 
Made silken ties, that never may be broken. 
Cynthia ! I cannot tell the greater blisses 
That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's 
kisses : 240 

Was there a Poet born ? — But now no more, 
My wand' ring spirit must no further soar. 



SLEEP AND POETRY 

As I lay in my bed slepe full umnete 
Was unto me, but why that I ne might 
Rest I ne wist, for there n' as erthly wight 
(As I suppose) had more of hertis ese 
Than T, for I n' ad sicknesse nor disese. 

Chaucer. 

What is more gentle than a wind in summer ? 
What is more soothing than the pretty hummer 



30 EARLY POEMS 

That stays one moment in an open flower, 

And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower ? 

What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing 

In a green island, far from all men's knowing ? 

More healthful than the leafiness of dales ? 

More secret than a nest of nightingales ? 

More serene than Cordelia's countenance ? 

More full of visions than a high romance ? lo 

What, but thee, Sleep ? Soft closer of our eyes 1 

Low murmurer of tender lullabies ! 

Light hoverer around our happy pillows ! 

Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows ! 

Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses ! 

Most happy listener ! when the morning blesses 

Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes 

That glance so brightly at the new sunrise. 

But what is higher beyond thought than thee ? 
Fresher than berries of a mountain-tree ? 20 

More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more 

regal, 
Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen 

eagle ? 
What is it ? And to what shall I compare it ? 
It has a glory, and nought else can share it : 
The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy, 
Chasing away all worldliness and folly : 
Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder. 
Or the low rumblings earth's regions under ; 
And sometimes like a gentie whispering , 
Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing 30 

That breathes about us in the vacant air ; 
So that we look around with prying stare, 
Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning ; 
And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymn- 
ing; 
To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended, 
That is to crown our name when life is ended. 



SLEEP AND POETRY 31 

Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice, 
And from the heart up-springs, rejoice ! rejoice ! 
Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things, 
And die away in ardent mutteriugs. 40 

No one who once the glorious sun has seen, 
And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean 
For his great Maker's presence, but must know 
What 't is I mean, and feel his being glow : 
Therefore no insult will I give his spirit, 
By telling what he sees from native merit. 

O Poesy ! for thee I hold my pen. 
That am not yet a glorious denizen 
Of thy wide heaven — should I rather kneel 
Upon some mountain-top until I feel 50 

A growing splendour round about me hung. 
And echo back the voice of thine own tongue ? 
O Poesy ! for thee I grasp my pen. 
That am not yet a glorious denizen 
Of thy wide heaven ; yet, to my ardent prayer, 
Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, 
Smoothed for intoxication by the breath 
Of flowering bays, that I may die a death 
Of luxury, and my young spirit follow 
The morning sunbeams to the great Apollo 60 

Like a fresh sacrifice ; or, if I can bear 
The o'erwhelming sweets, 't will bring to me the 

fair 
Visions of all places : a bowery nook 
Will be elysium — an eternal book 
Whence I may copy many a lovely saying 
About the leaves, and flowers — about the playing 
Of nymphs in woods, and fountains ; and the shade 
Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid ; 
And many a verse from so strange influence 
That we must ever wonder how, and whence 70 

It came. Also imaginings will hover 



32 EARLY POEMS 

Round my fire-side, and haply there discover 

Vistas of solemn beauty, where I 'd wander 

In happy silence, like the clear Meander 

Through its lone vales ; and where I found a spot 

Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot. 

Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress 

Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness, 

Write on my tablets all that was permitted, 

All that was for our human senses fitted. 80 

Then the events of this wide world I 'd seize 

Like a strong giant, and my spirit tease 

Till at its shoulders it should proudly see 

Wings to find out an immortality. 

Stop and consider ! life is but a day ; 
A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way 
From a tree's summit ; a poor Indian's sleep 
While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep 
Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan ? 
Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown ; 90 

The reading of an ever-changing tale ; 
The light uplifting of a maiden's veil ; 
A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air ; 
A laughing school-boy, without grief or care, 
Riding the springy branches of an elm. 

O for ten years, that I may overwhelm 
Myself in poesy ; so I may do the deed 
That my own soul has to itself decreed. 
Then I will pass the countries that I see 
In long perspective, and continually 100 

Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll 

pass 
Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass, 
Feed upon apples red, and strawberries. 
And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees ; 
Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places, • 
To woo sweet kisses from averted faces, — 



SLEEP AND POETRY 33 

Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white 

Into a pretty shrinking with a bite 

As hard as lips can make it : till agreed, 

A lovely tale of human life we '11 read. no 

And one will teach a tame dove how it best 

May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest ; 

Another, bending o'er her nimble tread. 

Will set a green robe floating round her head, 

And still will dance with ever-varied ease. 

Smiling upon the flowers and the trees : 

Another will entice me on, and on 

Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon ; 

Till in the bosom of a leafy world 

We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd 120 

In the recesses of a pearly shell. 

And can I ever bid these joys farewell? 
Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, 
Where I may find the agonies, the strife 
Of human hearts : for lo ! I see afar, 
O'ersailing the blue cragginess, a car 
And steeds with streamy manes — the charioteer 
Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear : 
And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly 
Along a huge cloud's ridge ; and now with 
sprightly 130 

Wheel downward come they into fresher skies, 
Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes. 
Still downward with capacious whirl they glide ; 
And now I see them on a green-hill's side 
In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. 
The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talks 
To the trees and mountains ; and there soon appear 
Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear. 
Passing along before a dusky space 
Made by some mighty oaks : as they would chase 140 
Some ever-fleeting music, on they sweep. 
Lo ! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep : 



34 EARLY POEMS 

Some with upholden hand and mouth severe ; 
Some with their faces muffled to the ear 
Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom. 
Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom ; 
Some looking back, and some with upward gaze ; 
Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways 
Flit onward — now a lovely wreath of girls 
Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls ; 150 

And now broad wings. Most awfully intent 
The driver of those steeds is forward bent, 
And seems to listen : O that I might know 
All that he writes with such a hurrying glow. 

The visions all are fled — the car is fled 
Into the light of heaven, and in their stead 
A sense of real things comes doubly strong, 
And, like a muddy stream, would bear along 
My soul to nothingness : but I will strive 
Against all doubtings, and will keep alive 160 

The thought of that same chariot, and the strange 
Journey it went. 

Is there so small a range 
In the present strength of manhood, that the high 
Imagination cannot freely fly 
As she was wont of old ? prepare her steeds. 
Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds 
Upon the clouds ? Has she not shewn us all ? 
From the clear space of ether, to the small 
Breath of new buds unfolding ? From the mean- 
ing 
Of Jove's large eyebrow, to the tender greening 170 
Of April meadows ? here her altar shone, 
E'en in this isle ; and who could paragon 
The fervid choir that lifted up a noise 
Of harmony, to where it aye will poise 
Its mighty self of convoluting sound, 
Huge as a planet, and like that roll round, 



SLEEP AND POETRY 35 

Eternally around a dizzy void ? 

Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd 

With honours ; nor had any other care 

Than to sing out and soothe their wavy hair. 180 

Could all this be forgotten ? Yes, a schism 
Nurtured by foppery and barbarism, 
Made great Apollo blush for this his land. 
Men were thought wise who could not understand 
His glories : with a puling infant's force 
They sway'd about upon a rocking-horse. 
And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal-soul'd ! 
The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd 
Its gathering waves — ye felt it not. The blue 
Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 190 

Of summer nights collected still to make 
The morning precious : beauty was awake ! 
Why were ye not awake ? But ye were dead 
To things ye knew not of, — were closely wed 
To musty laws lined out with wretched rule 
And compass vile : so that ye taught a school 
Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit, 
Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, 
Their verses tallied. Easy was the task : 
A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 200 

Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race ! 
That blasphem'd the bright Lyrist to his face, 
And did not know it, — no, they went about, 
Holding a poor, decrepid standard out, 
Mark'd with most flimsy mottoes, and in large 
The name of one Boileau ! 

O ye whose charge 
It is to hover round our pleasant hills ! 
Whose congregated majesty so fills 
My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace 
Your hallowed names, in this unholy place, 210 

So near those common folk ; did not their shames 



36 EARLY POEMS 

Affright you ? Did our old lamenting Thames 
Delight you ? did ye never cluster round 
Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound, 
And weep ? Or did ye wholly bid adieu 
To regions where no more the laurel grew ? 
Or did ye stay to give a welcoming 
To some lone spirits who could proudly sing 
Their youth away, and die ? 'T was even so: 
But let me think away those times of woe : 220 

Now 't is a fairer season ; ye have breathed 
Rich benedictions o'er us ; ye have wreathed 
Fresh garlands : for sweet music has been heard 
In many places ; — some has been upstirr'd 
From out its crystal dwelling in a lake, 
By a swan's ebon bill ; from a thick brake, 
Nested and quiet in a valley mild, 
Bubbles a pipe ; fine sounds are floating wild 
About the earth : happy are ye and glad. 
These things are, doubtless ; yet in truth we 've 
had 230 

Strange thunders from the potency of song ; 
Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong 
From maj esty : but in clear truth the themes 
Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes 
Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower 
Of light is Poesy ; 't is the supreme of power ; 
'T is might half slumb'ring on its own right arm. 
The very archings of her eyelids charm 
A thousand willing agents to obey. 
And still she governs with the mildest sway : 240 
But strength alone though of the Muses born 
Is like a fallen angel : trees uptorn. 
Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres 
Delight it ; for it feeds upon the burrs 
And thorns of life ; forgetting the great end 
Of Poesy, that it should be a friend 
To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts of man. 



SLEEP AND POETRY 37 

Yet I re j oice : a myrtle fairer than 
E'er grow in Paplios, from the bitter weeds 
Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds 250 

A silent space with ever sprouting green. 
All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen, 
Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering, 
Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. 
Then let us clear away the choking thorns 
From round its gentle stem ; let the young fawns, 
Yeaned in after-times, when we are flown, 
Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown 
With simple flowers: let there nothing be 
More boisterous than a lover's bended knee ; 260 

Nought more ungentle than the placid look 
Of one who leans upon a closed book ; 
Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes 
Between two hills. All hail, delightful hopes ! 
As she was wont, th' imagination 
Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, 
And they shall be accounted poet kings 
Who simply tell the most heart-easing things. 
O may these joys be ripe before I die. 

Will not some say that I presumptuously 270 

Have spoken ? that from hastening disgrace 
'T were better far to hide my foolish face ? 
That whining boyhood should with reverence bow 
Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach ? How ! 
If I do hide myself, it sure shall be 
In the very fane, the light of Poesy : 
If I do fall, at least I will be laid 
Beneath the silence of a poplar shade ; 
And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven ; 
And there shall be a kind memorial graven. 280 

But off, Despondence ! miserable bane ! 
They should not know thee, who athirst to gain 
A noble end, are thirsty every hour. 
What though I am not wealthy in the dower 



38 EARLY POEMS 

Of spanning wisdom ; though I do not know 

The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow 

Hither and thither all the changing thoughts 

Of man : though no great minist'ring reason sorts 

Out the dark mysteries of human souls 

To clear conceiving : yet there ever rolls 290 

A vast idea before me, and I glean 

Therefrom my liberty ; thence too I 've seen 

The end and aim of Poesy. 'T is clear 

As anything most true ; as that the year 

Is made of the four seasons — manifest 

As a large cross, some old cathedral's crest. 

Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I 

Be but the essence of deformity, 

A coward, did my very eyelids wink 

At speaking out what I have dared to think. 300 

Ah ! rather let me like a madman run 

Over some precipice ; let the hot sun 

Melt my Daedalian wings, and drive me down 

Convuls'd and headlong ! Stay ! an inward frown 

Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile. 

An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle, 

Spreads awfully before me. How much toil ! 

How many days ! what desperate turmoil ! 

Ere I can have explored its widenesses. 

Ah, what a task ! upon my bended knees, 310 

1 could unsay those — no, impossible ! 

Impossible ! 

For sweet relief I '11 dwell 
On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay 
Begun in gentleness die so away. 
E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades : 
I turn full-hearted to the friendly aids 
That smooth the path of honour ; brotherhood, 
And friendliness the nurse of mutual good. 
The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet 
Into the brain ere one can think upon it ; 320 



SLEEP AND POETRY 39 

The silence when some rhymes are coming out ; 
And when they 're come, the very pleasant rout : 
The message certain to be done to-morrow. 
'T is perhaps as well that it should be to bor- 
row 
Some precious book from out its snug retreat, 
To cluster round it when we next shall meet. 
Scarce can I scribble on ; for lovely airs 
Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs ; 
Many delights of that glad day recalling, 
When first my senses caught their tender falling. 330 
And with these airs come forms of elegance 
Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance, 
Careless, and grand — fingers soft and round 
Parting luxuriant curls : — and the swift bound 
Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye 
Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly. 
Thus I remember all the pleasant flow 
Of words at opening a portfolio. 

Things such as these are ever harbingers 
To trains of peaceful images : the stirs 340 

Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes : 
A linnet starting all about the bushes : 
A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted, 
Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smarted 
With over pleasure — many, many more, 
Might I indulge at large in all my store 
Of luxuries : yet I must not forget 
Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet : 
For what there may be worthy in these rhymes 
I partly owe to him : and thus, the chimes 350 

Of friendly voices had just given place 
To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace 
The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease. 
It was a poet's house who keeps the keys 
Of pleasiue's temple. Round about were hung 
The glorious features of the bards who sung 



40 EARLY POEMS 

In other ages — cold and sacred busts 

Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts 

To clear Futurity his darling fame ! 

Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim 360 

At swelling apples with a frisky leap 

And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap 

Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view a fane 

Of liny marble, and thereto a train 

Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward : 

One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward 

The dazzling sunrise : two sisters sweet 

Bending their graceful figures till they meet 

Over the trippings of a little child : 

And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild 370 

Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping. 

See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping 

Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs ; — 

A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims 

At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motion 

With the subsiding crystal : as when ocean 

Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothiness o'er 

Its rocky marge, and balances once more 

The patient weeds ; that now unshent by foam 

Feel all about their undulating home. 380 

Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down 
At nothing ; just as though the earnest frown 
Of over-thinking had that moment gone 
From off her brow, and left her all alone. 

Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes. 
As if he always listened to the sighs 
Of the goaded world ; and Kosciusko's, worn 
By horrid suffrance — mightily forlorn. 

Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green. 
Starts at the sight of Laura ; nor can wean 390 



EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER GEORGE 41 

His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they ! 

For over them was seen a free display 

Of outspread wings, and from between them shone 

The face of Poesy : from off her throne 

She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell. 

The very sense of where I was might well 

Keep Sleep aloof : but more than that there came 

Thought after thought to nourish up the flame 

Within my breast ; so that the morning light 

Surprised me even from a sleepless night ; 40. 

And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay, 

Resolving to begin that very day 

These lines ; and howsoever they be done, 

I leave them as a father does his son. 



EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER GEORGE 

Full many a dreary hour have I past. 
My brain bewilder' d, and my mind o'ercast 
With heaviness ; in seasons when I 've thought 
No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught 
From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze 
On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays ; 
Or, on the wavy grass outstretch' d supinely, 
Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely : 
That I should never hear Apollo's song. 
Though feathery clouds were floating all along 10 
The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, 
The golden lyre itself were dimly seen : 
That the still murmur of the honey bee 
Would never teach a rural song to me : 
That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slant- 
ing 
Would never make a lay of mine enchanting, 
Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold 
Some tale of love and arms in time of old. 



42 EARLY POEMS 

But there are times, when those that love the bay, 
Fly from all sorrowing far, far away ; 20 

A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see 
In water, earth, or air, but poesy. 
It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it, 
(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,) 
That when a Poet is in such a trance, 
In air he sees white coursers paw and prance, 
Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel. 
Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel ; 
And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call. 
Is the swift opening of their wide portal, 30 

When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear, 
Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poefs 

ear. 
When these enchanted portals open wide, 
And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide, 
The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls, 
And view the glory of their festivals : 
Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem 
Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream ; 
Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant run 
Like the bright spots that move about the sun ; 40 
And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar 
Pours with the lustre of a falling star. 
Yet further off are dimly seen their bowers, 
Of which no mortal eye can reach the flowers ; 
And 't is right just, for well Apollo knows 
'T would make the Poet quarrel with the rose. 
All that 's reveal'd from that far seat of blisses, 
Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses, 
As gracefully descending, light and thin, 
Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin, 50 

When he upswimmeth from the coral caves. 
And sports with half his tail above the waves. 

These wonders strange he sees, and many more, 
Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore. 



EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER GEORGE 43 

Should he upon an evening ramble fare 
With forehead to the soothing breezes bare, 
Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue, 
With all its diamonds trembling through and 

through ? 
Or the coy moon, when in the waviness 
Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, 60 

And staidly paces higher up, and higher, 
Like a sweet nun in holiday attire ? 
Ah, yes ! much more would start into his sight — 
The revelries, and mysteries of ni,^ht: 
And should I ever see them, I will tell you 
Such tales as needs must with amazement spell 

you. 

These are the living pleasures of the bard : 
But richer far posterity's award. 
What does he murmur with his lairst breath, 
While his proud eye looks th:ough the film of 
death ? 70 

'What though I leave this dull a'^; i earthl^ '■► -^iil'^ 
Yet shall my spirit lofty converse : Ul . 

With after times. — The patriot si m i^>. 
My stern alarum, and unsheath his stee! . 
Or in the senate thunder out my ;turabe^ i 
To startle princes from their easy alumbc 
The sage will mingle with each r-ioral the. 
My happy thoughts sententious ; he will teem 
With lofty periods when my verses fire him, 
And then I '11 stoop from heaven to inspire him. 80 
Lays have I left of such a dear delight 
That maids will sing them on tieir bridal night. 
Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, 
When they have tired their genti^ limbs with pby, 
And form'd a snowy circle on ti. grass, 
And plac'd in midst of all that io vely lass 
Who chosen is their queen, —with her fine bead 
Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red : 



,44 EARLY POEMS 

For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing, 
Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying ; 90 

Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, 
A bunch of violets full blown, and double, 
Serenely sleep : — she from a casket takes 
A little book, — and then a joy awakes 
About each youthful heart, — with stifled cries, 
And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes : 
For she's to read a tale of hopes and fears ; 
One that I foster'd in my youthful years : 
The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep. 
Gush ever and anon with silent creep, 100 

Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest 
Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast, 
Be lull'd with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu ! 
Thy dales and hills ai(u faaing^from my view : 
Swiftly I mount, upon wide-spreading pinions, 
Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions. 
Full joy 1 feel, while thus I cleave the air, 
That njy S'..[t verse will charm tliy daughters fair. 
And warm thy sons ! ' Ah, my dear friend and 
. her, 

; once, my mad ambition smother, no 

; joys like these, sure I should be 
nd dearer to society. 
1 is true, I've felt relief from pain 
.'J bright thought has darted through my 
brain : 
Through all that dty T 've felt a greater pleasure 
Than if I 'd brough: to light a hidden treasure. 
As to my sonnets, though none else should heed 

them, 
I feel delighted, still, that you should read them. 
Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment, 
Stretch'd on the grass at my best lov'd employ- 
ment 120 
Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought 
While, in my face, thy freshest breeze I caught. 



TO MY BROTHER GEORGE 45 

E'en now I'm pillow'd on a bed of flowers 

That crowns a lofty cliff, which proudly towers 

Above the ocean waves. The stalks and blades 

Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades. 

On one side is a field of drooping oats, 

Through which the poppies show their scarlet 

coats ; 
So pert and useless, that they bring to mind 
The scarlet coats that pester human-kind. 130 

And on the other side, outspread, is seen 
Ocean's blue mantle, streak'd with purple, and 

green ; 
Now 't is I see a canvass'd ship, and now 
Mark the bright silver curling round her prow. 
I see the lark down-dropping to his nest. 
And the broad- winged sea-^all jcver at rest ; 
For when no more he spreads his feathers free, 
His breast is dancing on the restless sea. 
Now I direct my eyes into the west. 
Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest : 140 

Why westward turn ? 'T was but to say adieu ! 
'T was but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you ! 



TO MY BROTHER GEORGE 

Many the wonders I this day have seen : 
The sun, when first he kist away the tears 
That fill'd the eyes of morn; — the laurell'd peers 

Who from the feathery gold of evening lean ; — 

The ocean with its vastness, its blue green. 

Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, — 
Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears 

Must think on what will be, and what has been. 

E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write, 
-Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping 

So scantly, that it seems her bridal night, 
And she her half-discover'd revels keeping. 



46 EARLY POEMS 

But what, without the social thought of thee, 
Would be the wonders of the sky and sea ? 



TO 

Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs 
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell 
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart ; so well 

Would passion arm me for the enterprise : 

But ah ! I am no knight whose foeman dies ; 
No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell ; 
I am no happy shepherd of the dell 

Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes. 

Yet must I dote upon thee, — call thee sweet, 
Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses 
When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication. 

Ah ! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet, 
And when the moon her pallid face discloses, 
I '11 gather some by spells, and incantation. 



SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A 
POEM 

Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; 

For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye. 

Not like the formal crest of latter days : 

But bending in a thousand graceful ways ; 

So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand, 

Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand, 

Could charm them into such an attitude. 

We must think rather, that in playful mood. 

Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight. 

To show this wonder of its gentle might. ic 

Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; 

For while I muse, the lance points slantingly 



SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION 47 

Athwart the morning air ; some lady sweet, 
Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet, 
From the worn top of some old battlement 
Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent : 
And from her own pure self no joy dissembling. 
Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling. 
Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest would 

take. 
It is reflected, clearly, in a lake, 20 

With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it 

rests, 
And th' half-seen mossiness of linnets' nests. 
Ah ! shall I ever tell its cruelty, 
When the fire flashes from a warrior's eye, 
And his tremendous hand is grasping it. 
And his dark brow for very wrath is knit ? 
Or when his spirit, with more calm intent, 
Leaps to the honours of a tournament, 
And makes the gazers round about the ring 
Stare at the grandeur of the balancing ? 30 

No, no ! this is far off : — then how shall I 
Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy, 
Which linger yet about long gothic arches, 
In dark green ivy, and among wild larches ? 
How sing the splendour of the revelries, 
When butts of wine are drunk off to the lees ? 
And that bright lance, against the fretted wall, 
Beneath the shade of stately banneral. 
Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield ? 
Where ye may see a spur in bloody field. 40 

Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces 
Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces ; 
Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens : 
Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens. 
Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry : 
Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by ? 
Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight 
Rein in the swelling of his ample might ? 



48 EARLY POEMS 

Spenser ! thy brows are arched, open, kind, 
And come like a clear sunrise to my mind ; 50 

And always does my heart with pleasure dance, 
When I think on thy noble countenance ; 
Where never yet was ought more earthly seen 
Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green. 
Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully 
Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh 
My daring steps : or if thy tender care, 
Thus startled unaware. 
Be jealous that the foot of other wight 
Should madly follow that bright path of light 60 
Trac'd by thy lov'd Libertas ; he will speak. 
And tell thee that my prayer is very meek ; 
That I will follow with due reverence. 
And start with awe at mine own strange pretence. 
Him thou wilt hear ; so I will rest in hope 
To see wide plains, fair trees, and lawny slope : 
The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flow- 
ers ; 
Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers. 



CALIDORE 

A FRAGMENT 

Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake ; 

His healthful spirit eager and awake 

To feel the beauty of a silent eve, 

Which seem'd full loth this happy world to leave ; 

The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly. 

He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky, 

And smiles at the far clearness all around, 

Until his heart is well nigh over wound 

And turns for calmness to the pleasant green 

Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean i 

So elegantly o'er the waters' brim 

And show their blossoms trim. 



\ 



CALIDORE 49 

Scarce can his clear and nimble eyesight follow 
The freaks and dartings of the black-wing'd swal- 
low, 
Delighting much, to see it half at rest, 
Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast 
'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon, 
The widening circles into nothing gone. 

And now the sharp keel of his little boat 
Comes up with ripple, and with easy float, 20 

And glides into a bed of water-lilies : 
Broad-leav'd are they, and their white canopies 
Are upward turn'd to catch the heavens' dew. 
Near to a little island's point they grew ; 
Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view 
Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore 
Went off in gentle windings to the hoar 
And light blue mountains : but no breathing man 
With a warm heart, and eye prepared to scan 
Nature's clear beauty, could pass lightly by 30 

Objects that look'd out so invitingly 
On either side. These, gentle Calidore 
Greeted, as he had known them long before. 

The sidelong view of swelling leafiness. 
Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress ; 
Whence, ever and anon, the jay outsprings, 
And scales upon the beauty of its wings. 

The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn, 
Stands venerably proud ; too proud to mourn 
Its long lost grandeur: fir-trees grow around, 40 

Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the ground. 

The little chapel, with the cross above, 
Upholding wreaths of ivy ; the white dove, 
That on the windows spreads his feathers light, 
And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight. 



50 EARLY POEMS 

Green tufted islands casting their soft shades 
Across the lake ; sequester'd leafy glades, 
That through the dimness of their twilight show- 
Large dock-leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow 
Of the cat's wild eyes, or the silvery stems 50 

Of delicate birch-trees, or long grass which hems 
A little brook. The youth had long been view- 
ing 
These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing 
The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught 
A trumpet's silver voice. Ah ! it was fraught 
With many joys for him: the warder's ken 
Had found white coursers prancing in the glen ; 
Friends very dear to him he soon will see ; 
So pushes off his boat most eagerly. 
And soon upon the lake he skims along, 60 

Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song ; 
Nor minds he the white swans that dream so 

sweetly : 
His spirit flies before him so completely. 

And now he turns a jutting point of land, 
Whence may be seen the castle gloomy, and grand : 
Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches, 
Before the point of his light shallop reaches 
Those marble steps that through the water dip : 
Now over them he goes with hasty trip. 
And scarcely stays to ope the folding doors : 70 

Anon he leaps along the oaken floors 
Of halls and corridors. 

Delicious sounds ! those little bright-eyed things 
That float about the air on azure wings, 
Had been less heartfelt by him than the clang 
Of clattering hoofs ; into the court he sprang. 
Just as two noble steeds, and palfreys twain, 
Were slanting out their necks with loosen'd rein ; 



CALIDORE SI 

While from beneath the threat'ning portcullis 

They brought their happy burthens. What a kiss, 

What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's hand ! 8i 

How tremblingly their delicate ankles spann'd ! 

Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone, 

While whisperings of affection 

Made him delay to let their tender feet 

Come to the earth ; with an incline so sweet 

From their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent : 

And whether there were tears of languishment, 

Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their tresses, 

He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses 90 

With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye, 

All the soft luxury 

That nestled in his arms. A dimpled hand, 

Fair as some wonder out of fairy land, 

Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers 

Of whitest Cassia, fresh from summer showers : 

And this he fondled with his happy cheek, 

As if for 3 oy he would no further seek ; 

When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond 

Came to his ear, like something from beyond 100 

His present being : so he gently drew 

His warm arms, thrilling now with pulses new, 

From their sweet thrall, and forward gently bending, 

Thank'd Heaven that his joy was never ending ; 

While 'gainst his forehead he devoutly press'd 

A hand Heaven made to succoiu- the distress'd ; 

A hand that from the world's bleak promontory 

Had lifted Calidore for deeds of glory. 

Amid the pages, and the torches' glare, 
There stood a knight, patting the flowing hair no 
Of his proud horse's mane : he was withal 
A man of elegance, and stature tall : 
So that the waving of his plumes would be 
High as the berries of a wild ash-tree, 



52 EARLY POEMS 

Or as the winged cap of Mercury. 
His armour was so dexterously wrought 
In shape, that sure no living man had thought 
It hard, and heavy steel : but that indeed 
It was some glorious form, some splendid weed, 
In which a spirit new come from the skies 120 

Might live, and show itself to human eyes. 
'T is the far-fam'd, the brave Sir Gondibert, 
Said the good man to Calidore alert ; 
While the young warrior with a step of grace 
Came up, — a courtly smile upon his face. 
And mailed hand held out, ready to greet 
The large-eyed wonder, and ambitious heat 
Of the aspiring boy ; who as he led 
Those smiling ladies, often turned his head 
To admire the visor arched so gracefully 130 

Over a knightly brow ; while they went by 
The lamps that from the high-roof d hall were pen- 
dent, 
And gave the steel a shining quite transcendent. 

Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated ; 
The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already greeted 
All the green leaves that round the window clam- 
ber. 
To show their purple stars, and bells of amber. 
Sir Gondibert has doff'd his shining steel, 
Gladdening in the free, and airy feel 
Of a light mantle ; and while Clerimond 140 

Is looking round about him with a fond 
And placid eye, young Calidore is burning 
To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurning 
Of all unworthiness ; and how the strong of arm 
Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm 
From lovely woman ; while brimful of this, 
He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiss, 
And had such manly ardour in his eye, 
That each at other look'd half-staringly ; 



EPISTLE TO C. C. CLARKE 53 

And then their features started into smiles, 150 

Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles. 

Softly the breezes from the forest came, 
Softly they blew aside the taper's flame ; 
Clear was the song from Philomel's far bower ; 
Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower ; 
Mysterious, wild, the far heard trumpet's tone ; 
Lovely the moon in ether, all alone : 
Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals, 
As that of busy spirits when the portals 
Are closing in the west ; or that soft humming 160 
We hear around when Hesperus is coming. 
Sweet be their sleep. . . . 



EPISTLE TO CHARLES COWDEN 
CLARKE 

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning. 
And with proud breast his own white shadow 

crowning ; 
He slants his neck beneath the waters bright 
So silently, it seems a beam of light 
Come from the galaxy : anon he sports, — 
With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts, 
Or ruffles all the surface of the lake 
In striving from its crystal face to take 
Some diamond water-drops, and them to treasure 
In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure. 10 

But not a moment can he there insure them, 
Nor to such downy rest can he allure them ; 
For down they rush as though they would be free. 
And drop like hours into eternity. 
Just like that bird am I in loss of time. 
Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme ; 
With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvas rent, 
I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent ; 



54 EARLY POEMS 

Still scooping up the water with my fingers, 

In which a trembling diamond never lingers. 20 

By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see 
"Why I have never penn'd a line to thee : 
Because my thoughts were never free, and clear, 
And little fit to please a classic ear ; 
Because my wine was of too poor a savour 
For one whose palate gladdens in the flavour 
Of sparkling Helicon : — small good it were 
To take him to a desert rude, and bare, 
Who had on Baiae's shore reclin'd at ease, 
"While Tasso's page was floating in a breeze 30 

That gave soft music from Armida's bowers, 
Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers : 
Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream 
Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream ; 
Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook, 
And lovely Una in a leafy nook. 
And Archimago leaning o'er his book : 
Who had of all that 's sweet tasted, and seen, 
From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen ; 
From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania, 40 

To the blue dwelling of divine Urania : 
One, who of late had ta'en sweet forest walks 
With him who elegantly chats and talks — 
The wrong'd Libertas, — who has told you stories 
Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories ; 
Of troops chivalrous prancing through a city. 
And tearful ladies made for love, and pity: 
With many else which I have never known. 
Thus have I thought ; and days on days have 

flown 
Slowly, or rapidly — unwilling still 50 

For you to try my dull, unlearned quill. 
Nor should I now, but that I 've known you long ; 
That you first taught me all the sweets of song : 



EPISTLE TO C. C. CLARKE 55 

The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine : 
What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine : 
Spenserian vowels that elope with ease. 
And float along like birds o'er summer seas : 
Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness : 
Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slender- 

ness. 
Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly 60 

Up to its climax, and then dying proudly ? 
Who found for me the grandeur of the ode, 
Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load ? 
Who let me taste that more than cordial dram. 
The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram ? 
Show'd me that epic was of all the king, 
Round, vast, and spanning all, like Saturn's ring ? 
You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty, 
And pointed out the patriot's stern duty ; 
The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell ; 70 

The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell 
Upon a tyrant's head. Ah ! had I never seen, 
Or known your kindness, what might I have been ? 
What my enjoyments in my youthful years, 
Bereft of all that now my life endears ? 
And can I e'er these benefits forget ? 
And can I e'er repay the friendly debt ? 
No, doubly no ; — yet should these rhymings 

please, 
I shall roll on the grass with twofold ease ; 
For I have long time been my fancy feeding 80 

With hopes that you would one day think the read- 
ing 
Ot my rough verses not an hour misspent ; 
Should it e'er be so, what a rich content ! 
Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spires 
In lucent Thames reflected : — warm desires 
To see the sun o'er-peep the eastern dimness 
And morning shadows streaking into slimness, 



56 EARLY POEMS 

Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water ; 

To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter ; 

To feel the air that plays about the hills, 90 

And sips its freshness from the little rills ; 

To see high, golden corn wave in the light 

When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night, 

And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white. 

As though she were reclining in a bed 

Of bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed. 

No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures. 

Than I began to think of rhymes and measures ; 

The air that floated by me seem'd to say 

'Write ! thou wilt never have a better day.' 100 

And so I did. When many lines I 'd written. 

Though with their grace I was not oversmitten, 

Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I 'd better 

Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter. 

Such an attempt required an inspiration 

Of a peculiar sort, — a consummation ; — 

Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have 

been 
Verses from which the soul would never wean ; 
But many days have past since last my heart 
Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart ; no 

By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd ; 
Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sadden'd : 
What time you were before the music sitting, 
And the rich notes to each sensation fitting. 
Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes 
That freshly terminate in open plains. 
And revell'd in a chat that ceased not 
When at night-fall among your books we got : 
No, nor when supper came, nor after that, — 
Nor when reluctantly I took my hat ; 120 

No, nor till cordially you shook my hand 
Mid- way between our homes : — your accents bland 
Still sounded in my ears, when I no- more 
Could hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly floor. 



ADDRESSED TO B. R. HAYDON 57 

Sometimes I lost them, and then found again ; 
You changed the foot-path for the grassy plain. 
In those still moments I have wish'd you joys 
That well you know to honour : — ' Life's very toys 
With him,' said I, 'will take a pleasant charm ; 
It cannot be that ought will work him harm.' 130 
These thoughts now come o'er me with all their 

might : — 
Again I shake your hand, — friend Charles, good 

night. 



TO MY BROTHERS 

Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid 
coals, 

And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep 

Like whispers of the household gods that keep 
A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls. 
And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles, 

Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep, 

Upon the lore so voluble and deep. 
That aye at fall of night our care condoles. 
This is your birth-day, Tom, and I rej oice 

That thus it passes smoothly, quietly : 
Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise 

May we together pass, and calmly try 
What are this world's true joys, — ere the great 
Voice, 

From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly. 



ADDRESSED TO BENJAMIN ROBERT 
HAYDON 

I 
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning ; 
He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake. 



58 EARLY POEMS 

Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake. 
Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing : 
He of the rose, the violet, the spring, 

The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake : 

And lo ! — whose steadfastness would never take 
A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. 
And other spirits there are standing apart 

Upon the forehead of the age to come ; 
These, these will give the world another heart, 

And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum 
Of mighty workings in the human mart ? 
Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb. 

II 
HiGHMiNDEDNESS, a jcalousy for good, 

A loving-kindness for the great man's fame. 

Dwells here and there with people of no name, 
In noisome alley, and in pathless wood : 
And where we think the truth least understood, 

Oft may be found a ' singleness of aim,' 

That ought to frighten into hooded shame 
A money-mong'ring, pitiable brood. 
How glorious this affection for the cause 

Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly ! 
What when a stout unbending champion awes 

Envy, and Malice to their native sty ? 
Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause, 

Proud to behold him in his country's eye. 



TO KOSCIUSKO ^ 

Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone 

Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling ; 
It comes upon us like the glorious pealing 

Of the wide spheres — an everlasting tone. 

And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown. 
The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing, 



STANZAS 59 

Are changed to harmonies, for ever stealing 
Through cloudless blue, and round each silver 

throne. 
It tells me too, that on a happy day. 
When some good spirit walks upon the earth, 

Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore, 
Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth 
To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away 
To where the great God lives for evermore. 



TO G. A. W. 

Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance, 

In what diviner moments of the day 

Art thou most lovely ? When gone far astray 
Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance ? 
Or when serenely wand' ring in a trance 

Of sober thought ? Or when starting away. 

With careless robe, to meet the morning ray, 
Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy dance ? 
Haply 't is when thy ruby lips part sweetly, 

And so remain, because thou listenest : 
But thou to please wert nurtured so completely 

That I can never tell what mood is best. 
I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly 

Trips it before Apollo than the rest. 



STANZAS 

In a drear-nighted December 
Too happy, happy tree. 
Thy branches ne'er remember 
Their green felicity : 
The north cannot undo them. 
With a sleety whistle through them 
Nor frozen thawings glue them 
From budding at the prime. 



6o EARLY POEMS 

In a drear-nighted December, 
Too happy, happy brook, 
Thy bubblings ne'er remember 
Apollo's summer look ; 
But with a sweet forgetting, 
They stay their crystal fretting, 
Never, never petting 

About the frozen time. 

Ah ! would 't were so with many 

A gentle girl and boy ! 
But were there ever any 

Writh'd not at passed joy ? 
To know the change and feel it, 
When there is none to heal it, 
Nor numbed sense to steal it. 
Was never said in rhyme. 



WRITTEN IN DISGUST OF VULGAR 
SUPERSTITION 

The church bells toll a melancholy round. 
Calling the people to some other prayers. 
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares, 

More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound. 

Surely the mind of man is closely bound 
In some black spell ; seeing that each one tears 
Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs. 

And converse high of those with glory crown'd. 

Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp — 
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know 

That they are dying like an outburnt lamp ; 
That 't is their sighing, wailing ere they go 
Into oblivion ; — that fresh flowers will grow, 

And many glories of immortal stamp. 



GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET 6i 



SONNET 

Happy is England ! I could be content 

To see no other verdure than its own ; 

To feel no other breezes than are blown 
Through its tall woods with high romances blent : 
Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment 

For skies Italian, and an inward groan 

To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, 
And half forget what world or worldling meant. 
Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters ; 

Enough their simple loveliness for me, 
Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging : 

Yet do I often warmly burn to see 
Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their sing- 
ing, 
And float with them about the summer waters. 



ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET 

The poetry of earth is never dead : 
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, 
And hide in cooling trees; a voice will run 

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead ; 

That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead 
In summer luxury, — he has never done 
With his delights ; for when tired out with fun, 

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 

The poetry of earth is ceasing never : 
On a lone winter evening, when the frost 
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there 
shrills 

The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, 
And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost. 
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 



62 EARLY POEMS 



SONNET 



After dark vapours have oppress'd our plains 
For a long dreary season, comes a day- 
Born of the gentle South, and clears away 

From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. 

The anxious month, relieved its pains, 
Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May ; 
The eyelids with the passing coolness play. 

Like rose leaves with the drip of summer rains. 

And calmest thoughts come round us ; as, of leaves 
Budding, — fruit ripening in stillness, — Autu^nn 
suns 

Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, — 

Sweet Sappho's cheek, — a sleeping infant's 
breath, — 
The gradual sand that through an hour-glass 
runs, — 

A woodland rivulet, — a Poet's death. 

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK SPACE AT 
THE END OF CHAUCER'S TALE OF 
'THE FLOURE AND THE LEFE' 

This pleasant tale is like a little copse : 
The honied lines so freshly interlace, 
To keep the reader in so sweet a place, 

•So that he here and there full-hearted stops ; 

And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops 
Come cool and suddenly against his face. 
And, by the wandering melody, may trace 

Which way the tender-legged linnet hops. 

Oh ! what a power has white simplicity! 
What mighty power has this gentle story ! 
I, that do ever feel athirst for glory. 

Could at this moment be content to lie 
Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings 
Were heard of none beside the mournful robins. 



TO HAYDON 63 



ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES 

My spirit is too weak — mortality 

Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, 
And each imagin'd pinnacle and steep 

Of godlike hardship tells me I must die 

Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky. 
Yet 't is a gentle luxury to weep 
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep, 

Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye. 

Such dim-conceived glories of the brain 
Bring round the heart an indescribable feud ; 

So do these wonders a most dizzy pain, 
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude 

"Wasting of old Time — with a billowy main — 
A sun — a shadow of a magnitude. 



TO HAYDON 
(with the preceding sonnet) 

Haydon ! forgive me that I cannot speak 

Definitively of these mighty things ; 

Forgive me, that I have not Eagle's wings — 
That what I want I know not where to seek : 
And think that I would not be over meek, 

In rolling out upfollow'd thunderings, 

Even to the steep of Heliconian springs, 
Were I of ample strength for such a freak — 
Think too, that all those numbers should be thine ; 

Whose else ? In this who touch thy vesture's 
hem? 
For when men star'd at what was most divine 

With browless idiotism — o'erwise phlegm — 
Thou hadst beheld the Hesperean shine 

Of their star in the East, and gone to worship 
them. 



64 EARLY POEMS 

TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. 
[a dedication] 

Glory and loveliness have pass'd away ; 
For if we wander ont in early morn, 
No wreathed incense do we see upborne 

Into the east, to meet the smiling day : 

No crowd of nymphs soft-voic'd and young, and 

gay, 

In woven baskets bringing ears of corn, 

Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn 
The shrine of Flora in her early May. 
But there are left delights as high as these, 

And I shall ever bless my destiny. 
That in a time, when under pleasant trees 

Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free, 
A leafy luxury, seeing I could please 

With these poor offerings, a man like thee. 

ON THE SEA 

It keeps eternal whisperings around 
Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell 
Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell 

Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. 

Often 'tis in such gentle temper found, 
That scarcely will the very smallest shell 
Be mov'd for days from where it sometime fell, . 

When last the winds of Heaven were unbound. 

O ye ! who have your eyeballs vex'd and tir'd, 
Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea ; 

O ye ! whose ears are dinn'd with uproar rude, 
Or fed too much with cloying melody, — 

Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood 

Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired ! 



ON 65 



LINES 

Unfelt, unheard, unseen, 

I 've left my little queen, 
Her languid arms in silver slumber lying : 

Ah ! through their nestling touch, 

Who — who could tell how much 
There is for madness — cruel, or complying ? 

Those faery lids how sleek ! 

Those lips how moist ! — they speak. 
In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds : 

Into my fancy's ear 

Melting a burden dear, 
How ' Love doth know no fulness, and no bounds.' 

True ! — tender monitors ! 

I bend unto your laws : 
This sweetest day for dalliance was born 1 

So, without more ado, 

I '11 feel my heaven anew. 
For all the blushing of the hasty mom. 



ON 

Think not of it, sweet one, so ; - 

Give it not a tear ; 
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go 

Any — any where. 

Do not look so sad, sweet one, — 

Sad and fadingly ; 
Shed one drop, then it is gone,' 

Oh ! 't was born to die ! 

Still so pale ? then dearest weep 
Weep, I '11 count the tears, 



66 EARLY POEMS 

For each will I invent a bliss 
For thee in after years. 

Brighter has it left thine eyes 

Than a sunny rill ; 
And thy whispering melodies 

Are more tender still. 

Yet — as all things mourn awhile 

At fleeting blisses ; 
E'en let us too ; but be our dirge 

A dirge of kisses. 



ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER 

Come hither, all sweet maidens soberly, 
Down-looking aye, and with a chasten'd light 
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, 

And meekly let your fair hands joined be, 

As if so gentle that ye could not see, 
Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright, 
Sinking away to his young spirit's night, 

Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea: 

'T is young Leander toiling to his death ; 
Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips 

For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile. 
O hoiTid dream ! see how his body dips 
Dead-heavy ; arms and shoulders gleam awhile ; 

He 's gone ; up bubbles all his amorous breath ! 



ON LEIGH HUNT'S POEM, 'THE STORY 
OF RIMINI' 

Who loves to peer up at the morning sun. 
With half -shut eyes and comfortable cheek. 
Let him, with this sweet tale, full often seek 

For meadows where the little rivers run ; 



ON A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR 67 

Who loves to linger with that brightest one 
Of Heaven — Hesperus — let him lowly speak 
These numbers to the night, and starlight meek, 

Or moon, if that her hunting be begun. 

He who knows these delights, and too is prone 
To moralize upon a smile or tear, 

Will find at once a region of his own, 
A bower for his spirit, and will steer 

To alleys, where the fir-tree drops its cone, 
Where robins hop, and fallen leaves are sear. 



SONNET 

When I have fears that I may cease to be 

Before my pen has glean' d my teeming brain, 
Before high piled books, in charactry, 

Hold like rich garners the full -ri pen' d grain ; 
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, 

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance. 
And think that I may never live to trace 

Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance 
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour ! 

That I shall never look upon thee more. 
Never have relish in the faery power 

Of unreflecting love ; — then on the shore 
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 



ON SEEING A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR 

Chief of organic numbers ! 

Old Scholar of the Spheres ! 
Thy spirit never slumbers, 

But rolls about our ears, 
For ever and for ever ! 
O what a mad endeavour 
Worketh he. 



68 EARLY POEMS 

Who to thy sacred and ennobled hearse 
Would offer a burnt sacrifice of verse 
And melody. 

How heavenward thou soundest, 

Live Temple of sweet noise, 
And Discord unconfoundest, 
Giving Delight new joys, 
And Pleasure nobler pinions ! 
O, where are thy dominions ? 
Lend thine ear 
To a young Delian oath, — ay, by thy soul. 
By all that from thy mortal lips did roll. 
And by the kernel of thine earthly love. 
Beauty, in things on earth, and things above, 
I swear ! 
When every childish fashion 

Has vanish' d from my rhyme, 
Will I, grey -gone in passion. 
Leave to an after-time, 
Hymning and harmony 
Of thee, and of thy works, and of thy life ; 
But vain is now the burning and the strife, 
Pangs are in vain, until I grow high-rife 

With old Philosophy, 
And mad with glimpses of futurity ! 

For many years my offering must be hush'd ; 

When I do speak, I '11 think upon this hour, 
Because I feel my forehead hot and flush'd. 
Even at the simplest vassal of thy power, — 
A lock of thy bright hair — 
Sudden it came. 
And I was startled, when I caught thy name 

Coupled so unaware ; 
Yet, at the moment, temperate was my blood. 
I thought I had beheld it from the flood. 



LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN 69 



ON SITTING DOWN TO READ 'KING 
LEAR' ONCE AGAIN 

O GOLDEN-TONGUED RomancG, with serene lute ! 

Fair plumed Syren, Queen of far away ! 

Leave melodizing on this wintry day, 
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute : 
Adieu ! for once again the fierce dispute. 

Betwixt damnation and impassion' d clay, 
' Must I burn through ; once more humbly assay 
The bitter sweet of this Shakespearean fruit: 
Chief Poet ! and ye clouds of Albion, 

Begetters of our deep eternal theme ! 
When through the old oak forest I am gone, 

Let me not wander in a barren dream, 
But when I am consumed in the Fire, 
Give me new Phcenix-wings to fly at my desire. 



LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN 

Souls of Poets dead and gone. 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 
Than mine host's Canary wine ? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison ? O generous food ! 
Drest as though bold Robin Hood 
Would, with his maid Marian, 
Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board flew away, 



70 EARLY POEMS 

Nobody knew whither, till 

An astrologer's old quill 

To a sheepskin gave the story, 

Said he saw you in your glory, 

Underneath a new-old sign 

Sipping beverage divine, 

And pledging with contented smack 

The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 



ROBIN HOOD 

TO A FRIEND 

No ! those days are gone away, 
And their hours are old and gray, 
And their minutes buried all 
Under the down-trodden pall 
Of the leaves of many years : 
Many times have Winter's shears, 
Frozen North, and chilling East, 
Sounded tempests to the feast 
Of the forest's whispering fleeces, 
Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 

No, the bugle sounds no more, 
And the twanging bow no more ; 
Silent is the ivory shrill 
Past the heath and up the hill ; 
There is no mid -for est laugh. 
Where lone Echo gives the half 
To some wight, amaz'd to hear 
Jesting, deep in forest drear. 



ROBIN HOOD 71 

On the fairest time of June 
You may go, with sun or moon, 20 

Or the seven stars to light you, 
Or the polar ray to right you ; 
But you never may behold 
Little John, or Robin bold ; 
Never one, of all the clan, 
Thrumming on an empty can 
Some old hunting ditty, while 
He doth his green way beguile 
To fair hostess Merriment, 
Down beside the pasture Trent ; 30 

For he left the merry tale. 
Messenger for spicy ale. 

Gone, the merry morris din ; 
Gone, the song of Gamely n ; 
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw 
Idling in the ' grene shawe ; ' 
All are gone away and past ! 
And if Robin should be cast 
Sudden from his turfed grave, 
And if Marian should have 40 

Once again her forest days. 
She would weep, and he would craze : 
He would swear, for all his oaks, 
Fall'n beneath the dock-yard strokes. 
Have rotted on the briny seas ; 
She would weep that her wild bees 
Sang not to her — strange ! that honey 
Can't be got without hard money ! 

So it is ; yet let us sing 
Honour to the old bow-string ! 50 

Honour to the bugle horn ! 
Honour to the woods unshorn ! 
Honour to the Lincoln green ! 
Honour to the archer keen ! 



72 EARLY POEMS 

Honour to tight little John, 

And the horse he rode upon ! 

Honour to bold Robin Hood, 

Sleeping in the underwood ! 

Honour to Maid Marian, 

And to all the Sherwood clan ! 60 

Though their days have hurried by. 

Let us two a burden try. 



TO THE NILE 

Son of the old moon-mountains African 1 

Chief of the Pyramid and Crocodile ! 

We call thee fruitful, and that very while 
A desert fills our seeing' s inward span ; 
Nurse of swart nations since the world began, 

Art thou so fruitful ? or dost thou beguile 

Such men to honour thee, who, worn with toil. 
Rest for a space 'twixt Cairo and Decan ? 
O may dark fancies err ! They surely do ; 

'T is ignorance that makes a barren waste 
Of all beyond itself. Thou dost bedew 

Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste 
The pleasant sun-rise. Green isles hast thou too. 

And to the sea as happily dost haste. 



TO SPENSER 

Spenser ! a jealous honourer of thine, 

A forester deep in thy midmost trees, 
Did last eve ask my promise to refine 

Some English that might strive thine ear to please. 

But Elfin Poet, 't is impossible 
For an inhabitant of wintry earth 

To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill 
Fire-wing'd and make a morning in his mirth. 



SONG 73 

It is impossible to escape from toil 
O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting: 

The flower must drink the nature of the soil 
Before it can put forth its blossoming : 

Be with me in the summer days, and I 

Will for thine honour and his pleasure try. 



SONG 

WRITTEN ON A BLANK PAGE IN BEAUMONT AND 
FLETCHER'S WORKS, BETWEEN * CUPID'S REVENGE* 
AND 'THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN' 

Spirit here that reignest ! 
Spirit here that painest 1 
Spirit here that burnest ! 
Spirit here that mournest ! 

Spirit, I bow 

My forehead low, 
Enshaded with thy pinions. 

Spirit, I look 

All passion-struck 
Into thy pale dominions. 

Spirit here that laughest ! 
Spirit here that quaff est! 
Spirit here that dance st ! 
Noble soul that prancest ! 

Spirit, with thee 

I join in the glee 
A-nudging the elbow of Momus. 

Spirit, I flush 

With a Bacchanal blush 
Just fresh from the Banquet of Comus. 



74 EARLY POEMS 

FRAGMENT 

Under the flag 
Of each his faction, they to battle bring 
Their embryo atoms. 

Milton. 

Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow, 

Lethe's weed and Hermes' feather ; 
Come to-day, and come to-morrow, 

I do love you both together ! 

I love to mark sad faces in fair weather ; 
And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder ; 

Fair and foul I love together. 
Meadows sweet where flames are under, 
And a giggle at a wonder ; 
Visage sage at pantomime ; 
Funeral, and steeple-chime ; 
Infant playing with a skull ; 
Morning fair, and shipwreck'd hull ; 
Nightshade with the woodbine kissing ; 
Serpents in red roses hissing ; 
Cleopatra regal-dress'd 
"With the aspic at her breast ; 
Dancing music, music sad. 
Both together, sane and mad ; 
Muses bright, and muses pale ; 
Sombre Saturn, Momus hale ; — 
Laugh and sigh, and laugh again ; 
Oh, the sweetness of the pain ! 
Muses bright and muses pale, 
Bare your faces of the veil ; 
Let me see ; and let me write 
Of the day, and of the night — 
Both together : — let me slake 
All my thirst for sweet heart-ache ! 
Let my bower be of yew, 
Interwreath'd with myrtles new : 
Pines and lime-trees full in bloom. 
And my couch a low grass-tomb. 



IN ANSWER TO A SONNET 75 



WHAT THE THRUSH SAID 

O Tiiou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind, 
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist, 
And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars, 
To thee the spring will be a harvest-time. 
O thou, whose only book has been the light 
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on 
Night after night when Phoebus was away, 
To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn. 
O fret not after knowledge — I have none. 
And yet my song comes native with the warmth. 
O fret not after knowledge — I have none. 
And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens 
At thought of idleness cannot be idle, 
And he's awake who thinks himself asleep. 

WRITTEN IN ANSWER TO A SONNET 
ENDING THUS: — 

' Dark eyes are dearer far 
Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell.' 

By J. H. Reynolds. 

Blue ! 'T is the life of heaven, — the domain 

Of Cynthia, — the wide palace of the sun, — 
The tent of Hesperus, and all his train, — 

The bosomer of clouds, gold, gray, and dun. 
Blue ! 'T is the life of waters — ocean 

And all its vassal streams, pools numberless, 
May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can 

Subside, if not to dark blue nativeness. 
Blue ! Gentle cousin of the forest-green, 

Married to green in all the sweetest flowers, — 
Forget-me-not, — the blue bell, — and, that queen 

Of secrecy, the violet : what strange powers 
Hast thou, as a mere shadow ! But how great, 
When in an Eye thou art, alive with fate ! 



76 EARLY POEMS 



TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

O THAT a week could be an age, and we 

Felt parting and warm meeting every week ; 
Then one poor year a thousand years would be, 

The flush of welcome ever on the cheek : 
So could we live long life in little space, 

So time itself would be annihilate. 
So a day's journey in oblivious haze 

To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate. 
O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind ! 

To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant ! 
In little time a host of joys to bind, 

And keep our souls in one eternal pant ! 
This morn, my friend, and yester-evening taught 
Me how to harbor such a happy thought. 



THE HUMAN SEASONS 

FouK Seasons fill the measure of the year ; 

There are four seasons in the mind of man : 
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 

Takes in all beauty with an easy span : 
He has his Summer, when luxuriously 

Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves 
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 

Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves 
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 

He f urleth close ; contented so to look 
On mists in idleness — to let fair things 

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature. 
Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 



I 



ENDYMION: PREFACE 77 



ENDYMION 

•The stretched metre of an antique song.' 

Shakspeare's Sonnets. 

INSCRIBED 

WITH EVERY FEELING OF PRIDE AND REGRET 

AND WITH 'A BOWED MIND* 

TO THE MEMORY OF 

THE MOST ENGLISH OF POETS EXCEPT SHAKSPEARE, 

THOMAS CHATTERTON 

PREFACE 

Knowing within myself the manner in which this 
Poem has been produced, it is not without a feeling 
of regret that I make it public. 

What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the 
reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience, 
immaturity, and every error denoting a feverish at- 
tempt, rather than a deed accomplished. The two 
first books, and indeed the two last, I feel sensible 
are not of such completion as to warrant their pass- 
ing the press ; nor should they if I thought a year's 
castigation would do them any good ; — it will not : 
the foundations are too sandy. It is 3 ust that this 
youngster should die away : a sad thought for me, 
if I had not some hope that while it is dwindling I 
may be plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit to 
live. 

This may be speaking too presumptuously, and 
may deserve a punishment : but no feeling man will 
be forward to inflict it : he will leave me alone, with 
the conviction that there is not a fiercer hell than 
the failure in a great object. This is not written 
with the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms 
of course, but from the desire I have to conciliate 
men who are competent to look, and who do look 



78 ENDYMION 

with a zealous eye, to the honour of English litera- 
ture. 

The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the ma- 
ture imagination of a man is healthy ; but there is a 
space of life between, in which the soul is in a fer- 
ment, the character undecided, the way of life un- 
certain, the ambition thick-sighted : thence proceeds 
mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters which 
those men I speak of must necessarily taste in going 
over the following pages. 

I hope I have not in too late a day touched the 
beautiful mythology of Greece, and dulled its bright- 
ness :' for I wish to try once more, before I bid it 
farewell. 

Teignmouth, 
April 10, 1818. 



BOOK I 

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever: 
Its loveliness increases ; it will never 
Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breath- 
ing. 
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 
A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 
Of all the unhealthy and o'cr-darkcn'd ways lo 

Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all, 
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 
For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils 
With the green world they live in ; and clear rills 
That for themselves a cooling covert make 
'Gainst the hot season ; the mid- forest brake, 



BOOK FIRST 79 

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms : 
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 20 

We have imagined for the mighty dead ; 
All lovely tales that we have heard or read : 
An endless fountain of immortal drink, 
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

Nor do we merely feel these essences 
For one short hour ; no, even as the trees 
That whisper round a temple become soon 
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 
The passion poesy, glories infinite. 
Haunt us till they become a cheering light 30 

Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, 
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast. 
They alway must be with us, or we die. 

Therefore 't is with full happiness that I 
Will trace the story of Endymion. 
The very music of the name has gone 
Into my being, and each pleasant scene 
Is growing fresh before me as the green 
Of our own valleys : so I will begin 
Now while I cannot hear the city's din ; 40 

Now while the early budders are just new, 
And run in mazes of the youngest hue . 
About old forests ; while the willow trails 
Its delicate amber ; and the dairy pails 
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year 
Grows lush in j uicy stalks, I '11 smoothly steer 
My little boat, for many quiet hours. 
With streams that deepen freslily into bowers. 
Many and many a verse I hope to write, 
Before the daisies, vermeil rimni'd and white, 50 
Hide in deep herbage ; and ere yet the bees 
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, 
I must be near the middle of my story. 
O may no wintry season, bare, and hoary. 



8o ENDYMION 

See it half -finish' d : but let Autuma bold. 

With universal tinge of sober gold, 

Be all about me when I make an end. 

And now at once, adventuresome, I send 

My herald thought into a wilderness : 

There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress 60 

My uncertain path with green, that I may speed 

Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed. 

Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread 
A mighty forest : for the moist earth fed 
So plenteously all weed-hidden roots 
Into o'erhanging boughs, and precious fruits. 
And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep, 
Where no man went ; and if from shepherd's keep 
A lamb stray'd far a-down those inmost glens, 
Never again saw he the happy pens 70 

Whither his brethren, bleating with content, 
Over the hills at every nightfall went. 
Among the shepherds, 't was believed ever, 
That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever 
From the white flock, but pass'd unworried 
By angry wolf, or pard with prying head. 
Until it came to some unfooted plains 
Where fed the herds of Pan : aye great his gains 
Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were 

many, 
Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny, 80 
And ivy banks ; all leading pleasantly 
To a wide lawn, whence one could only see 
Stems thronging all around between the swell 
Of turf and slanting branches: who could tell 
The freshness of the space of heaven above. 
Edged round with dark tree-tops ? through which a 

dove 
Would often beat its wings, and often too 
A little cloud would move across the blue. 



i 



BOOK FIRST 8i 

Full in the middle of this pleasantness 
There stood a marble altar, with a tress 90 

Of flowers budded newly ; and the dew 
Had taken fairy phantasies to strew 
Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve, 
And so the dawned light in pomp receive. 
For 't was the morn: Apollo's upward fire 
Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre 
Of brightness so unsullied, that therein 
A melancholy spirit well might win 
Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine 
Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine 100 

Gave temperate sweets to that well Avooing sun ; 
The lark was lost in him ; cold springs had run 
To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass ; 
Man's voice was on the mountains ; and the mass 
Of nature's lives and wonders pulsed tenfold, 
To feel this sun-rise and its glories old. 

Now while the silent workings of the dawn 
Were busiest, into that self-same lawn 
All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped 
A troop of little children garlanded ; no 

"Who gathering round the altar seem'd to pry 
Earnestly round as wishing to espy 
Some folk of holiday : nor had they waited 
For many moments, ere their ears were sated 
With a faint breath of music, which ev'n then 
Fill'd out its voice, and died away again. 
Within a little space again it gave 
Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave, 
To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking 
Through copse-clad valleys, — ere their death, o'er- 
taking 120 

The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. 

And now, as deep into the wood as we 
Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmer'd light 
Fair faces and a rush of garments white, 



82 ENDYMION 

Plainer and plainer showing, till at last 

Into the widest alley they all past, 

Making directly for the woodland altar. 

O kindly muse ! let not my weak tongue faulter 

In telling of this goodly company, 

Of their old piety, and of their glee : 130 

But let a portion of ethereal dew 

Fall on my head, and presently unmew 

My soul ; that I may dare, in wayfaring, 

To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing. 

Leading the way, young damsels danced along, 
Bearing the burden of a shepherd song ; 
Each having a white wicker, overbrimm'd 
With April's tender younglings : next, well trimm'd, 
A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks 
As may be read of in Arcadian books ; 140 

Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe, 
When the great deity, for earth too ripe, 
Let his divinity o'erflowing die 
In music, through the vales of Thessaly : 
Some idly trail'd their sheep-hooks on the ground. 
And some kept up a shrilly mcillow sound 
With ebon-tipped flutes : close after these, 
Now coming from beneath the forest trees, 
A venerable priest full soberly, 
Begirt with minist'ring looks : alway his eye 150 
Steadfast upon the matted turf he kept. 
And after him his sacred vestments swept. 
From his right hand there swung a vase, milk- 
white. 
Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light ; 
And in his left he held a basket full 
Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull : 
Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still 
Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill. 
His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath, 
Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth 160 



BOOK FIRST 83 

Of winter hoar. Then came another crowd 

Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud 

Their share of the ditty. After them appear'd, 

Up-follow'd by a multitude that rear'd 

Their voices to the clouds, a fair-wrought car, 

Easily rolling so as scarce to mar 

The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown : 

Who stood therein did seem of great renown 

Among the throng. His youth was fully blown, 

Showing like Ganymede to manhood grown ; 170 

And, for those simple times, his garments were 

A chieftain king's ; beneath his breast, half bare, 

Was hung a silver bugle, and between 

His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen. 

A smile was on his countenance ; he seem'd 

To common lookers-on, like one who dream'd 

Of idleness in groves Elysian : 

But there were some who feelingly could scan 

A lurking trouble in his nether lip. 

And see that oftentimes the reins would slip 180 

Through his forgotten hands: then would they 

sigh, 
And think of yellow leaves, of owlets' cry, 
Of logs piled solemnly. — Ah, well-a-day. 
Why should our young Endymion pine away ! 

Soon the assembly, in a circle ranged, 
Stood silent round the shrine : each look was changed 
To sudden veneration : women meek 
Beckon'd their sons to silence ; while each cheek 
Of virgin bloom paled gently for slight fear. 
Endymion too, without a forest peer, 190 

Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face. 
Among his brothers of the mountain chase. 
In midst of all, the venerable priest 
Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least. 
And, after lifting up his aged hands, 
Thus spake he : ' Men of Latmos ! shepherd bands ! 



84 ENDYMION 

Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks: 
Whether descended from beneath the rocks 
That overtop your mountains ; whether come 
From valleys where the pipe is never dumb ; 200 
Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs 
Blue harebells lightly, and where prickly furze 
Buds lavish gold ; or ye, whose precious charge 
Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge, 
Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds for- 
lorn 
By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn : 
Mothers and wives ! who day by day prepare 
The scrip, with needments, for the mountain air ; 
And all ye gentle girls who fostel- up 
Udderless lambs, and in a little cup 210 

Will put choice honey for a favour' d youth : 
Yea, every one attend ! for in good truth 
Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan. 
Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than 
Night-swollen mushrooms ? Are not our wide plains 
Speckled with countless fleeces ? Have not rains 
Green'd over April's lap ? No howling sad 
Sickens our fearful ewes ; and we have had 
Great bounty from Endymion our lord. 
The earth is glad : the merry lark has pour'd 220 
His early song against yon breezy sky, 
That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity.' 

Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spire 
Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire ; 
Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod 
With wine, in honour of the shepherd-god. 
Now while the earth was drinking it, and while 
Bay leaves v/ere crackling in the fragrant pile. 
And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright 
'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light 230 

Spread grayly eastward, thus a chorus sang : 



BOOK FIRST 85 

' O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang 
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth 
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death, 
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness ; 
Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress 
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken ; 
And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and 

hearken 
The dreary melody of bedded reeds — 
In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds 240 
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth ; 
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth 
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx — do thou now, 
By thy love's milky brow ! 
By all the trembling mazes that she ran, 
Hear us, great Pan ! 

* O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles 
Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, 
What time thou wanderest at eventide 
Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side 250 
Of thine enmossed realms : O thou, to whom 
Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom 
Their ripen'd fruitage ; yellow-girted bees 
Their golden honeycombs ; our village leas 
Their fairest blossom'd beans and poppied corn ; 
The chuckling linnet its five young unborn. 
To sing for thee ; low-creeping strawberries 
Their summer coolness ; pent-up butterflies 
Their freckled wings ; yea, the fresh budding year 
All its completions — be quickly near, 260 

By every wind that nods the mountain pine, 
O forester divine ! 

' Thou, to whom every faun and satyr flies 
For willing service ; whether to surprise 
The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit ; 
Or upward ragged precipices flit 



86 ENDYMION 

To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw ; 

Or by mysterious enticement draw 

Bewilder'd shepherds to their path again \ 

Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, 270 

And gather up all fancifullest shells 

For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, 

And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping ; 

Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, 

The while they pelt each other on the crown 

With silvery oak-apples, and fir-cones brown — 

By all the echoes that about thee ring, 

Hear us, O satyr king ! 

' O Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, 
While ever and anon to his shorn peers 280 

A ram goes bleating : Winder of the horn, 
When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn 
Anger our huntsman : Breather round our farms, 
To keep off mildews, and all weather harms : 
Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds, 
That come a-swo6ning over hollow grounds, 
And wither drearily on barren moors : 
Dread opener of the mysterious doors 
Leading to universal knowledge — see. 
Great son of Dryope, 290 

The many that are come to pay their vows 
With leaves about their brows ! 

' Be still the unimaginable lodge 
For solitary thinkings ; such as dodge 
Conception to the very bourne of heaven. 
Then leave the naked brain : be still the leaven. 
That spreading in this dull and clodded earth 
Gives it a touch ethereal — a new birth : 
Be still a symbol of immensity ; 
A firmament reflected in a sea ; 300 

An element filling the space between ; 
An unknown — but no more : we humbly screen 



BOOK FIRST S7 

With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, 
And giving out a shout most heaven-rending, 
Conj ure thee to receive our humble Paean, 
Upon thy Mount Lycean ! ' 

Even while they brought the burden to a close, 
A shout from the whole multitude arose, 
That linger'd in the air like dying rolls 
Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals 310 

Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine. 
Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine, 
Young companies nimbly began dancing 
To the swift treble pipe, and humming string. 
Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly 
To tunes forgotten — out of memory : 
Fair creatures ! whose young children's children bred 
Thermopylae its heroes — not yet dead. 
But in old marbles ever beautiful. 
High genitors, unconscious did they cull 320 

Time's sweet first-fruits — they danced to weari- 
ness. 
And then in quiet circles did they press 
The hillock turf, and caught the latter end 
Of some strange history, potent to send 
A young mind from its bodily tenement. 
Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent 
On either side ; pitying the sad death 
Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath 
Of Zephyr slew him, — Zephyr penitent, 
Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament, 330 
Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain. 
The archers too, upon a wider plain, 
Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft. 
And the dull twanging bowstring, and the raft 
Branch down sweeping from a tall ash top 
Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelope 
Those who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling 
knee 



88 ENDYMION 

And frantic gape of lonely Niobe, 

Poor, lonely Niobe ! when her lovely young 

Were dead and gone, and her caressing tongue 340 

Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip, 

And very, very deadliness did nip 

Her motherly cheeks. Aroused from this sad 

mood 
By one, who at a distance loud halloo'd, 
Uplifting his strong bow into the air, 
Many might after brighter visions stare : 
After the Argonauts, in blind amaze 
Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways. 
Until, from the horizon's vaulted side. 
There shot a golden splendour far and wide, 350 

Spangling those million poutings of the brine 
With quivering ore : 't was even an awful shine 
From the exaltation of Apollo's bow ; 
A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe. 
Who thus were ripe for high contemplating, 
Might turn their steps towards the sober ring 
Where sat Endymion and the aged priest 
'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increased 
The silvery setting of their mortal star. 
There they discoursed upon the fragile bar 360 

That keeps us from our homes ethereal ; 
And what our duties there : to nightly call 
Vesper, the beauty -crest of summer weather ; 
To summon all the downiest clouds together 
For the sun's purple couch ; to emulate 
In minist'ring the potent rule of fate 
With speed of fire-tail'd exhalations ; 
To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons 
Sweet poesy by moonlight : besides these, 
A world of other unguess'd offices. 370 

Anon they wander' d, by divine converse, 
Into Elysium ; vying to rehearse 
Each one his own anticipated bliss. 
One felt heart-certain that he could not miss 



BOOK FIRST 89 

His quick-gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs, 
Where every zephyr-sigh pouts, and endows 
Her lips with music for the welcoming. 
Another wish'd, 'mid that eternal spring, 
To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails, 
Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales: 380 
Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth 

wind, 
And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind ; 
And, ever after, through those regions be 
His messenger, his little Mercury. 
Some were athirst in soul to see again 
Their fellow-huntsmen o'er the wide champaign 
In times long past ; to sit with them, and talk 
Of all the chances in their earthly walk ; 
Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous stores 
Of happiness, to when upon the moors, 390 

Benighted, close they huddled from the cold. 
And shared their famish' d scrips. Thus all out- 
told 
Their fond imaginations, — saving him 
Whose eyelids curtain' d up their jewels dim, 
Endymion : yet hourly had he striven 
To hide the cankering venom, that had riven 
His fainting recollections. Now indeed 
His senses had swoon'd off : he did not heed 
The sudden silence, or the whispers low, 
Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe, 400 

Or anxious calls, or close of trembling palms, 
Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms : 
But in the self-same fixed trance he kept, 
Like one who on the earth had never stept. 
Aye, even as dead-still as a marble man, 
Frozen in that old tale Arabian. 

Who whispers him so pantingly and close ? 
Peona, his sweet sister : of all those. 
His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs she made. 



90 ENDYMION 

And breathed a sister's sorrow to persuade 410 

A yielding up, a cradling on her care. 

Her eloquence did breathe away the curse : 

She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse 

Of happy changes in emphatic dreams. 

Along a path between two little streams, — 

Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow, 

From low-grown branches, and his footsteps slow 

From stumbling over stumps and hillocks small ; 

Until they came to where these streamlets fall, 

With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush, 420 

Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush 

With crystal mocking of the trees and sky. 

A little shallop, floating there hard by, 

Pointed its beak over the fringed bank ; 

And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank, 

And dipt again, with the young couple's weight, — 

Peona guiding, through the water straight, 

Towards a bowery island opposite ; 

Which gaining presently, she steered light 

Into a shady, fresh, and ripply cove, 430 

Where nested was an arbour, overwove 

By many a summer's silent fingering ; 

To whose cool bosom she was used to bring 

Her playmates, with their needle broidery, 

And minstrel memories of times gone by. 

So she was gently glad to see him laid 
Under her favourite bower's quiet shade 
On her own couch, new made of flower leaves, 
Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheaves 
When last the sun his autumn tresses shook, 440 

And the tanu'd harvesters rich armfuls took. 
Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest : 
But, ere it crept upon him, he had prest 
Peona's busy hand against his lips. 
And still, a-sleeping, held her finger-tips 
In tender pressure. And as a willow keeps 



BOOK FIRST 91 

A patient watch over the stream that creeps 

Windingly by it, so the quiet maid 

Held her in peace : so that a whispering blade 

Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling 450 

Down in the bluebells, or a wren light rustling 

Among sere leaves and twigs, might all be heard. 

O magic sleep ! O comfortable bird. 
That brood est o'er the troubled sea of the mind 
Till it is hush'd and smooth ! O unconfined 
Restraint ! imprison'd liberty ! great key 
To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy, 
Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves, 
Echoing grottoes, full of tumbling waves 
And moonlight ; aye, to all the mazy world 460 

Of silvery enchantment ! — who, upfurl'd 
Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour. 
But renovates and lives ? — Thus, in the bower, 
Endymion was calm'd to life again. 
Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain. 
He said : ' I feel this thine endearing love 
All through my bosom : thou art as a dove 
Trembling its closed eyes and sleeked wings 
About me ; and the pearliest dew not brings 
Such morning incense from the fields of May, 470 
As do those brighter drops that twinkling stray 
From those kind eyes, — the very home and haunt 
Of sisterly affection. Can I want 
Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than such tears ? 
Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fears 
That, any longer, I will pass my days 
Alone and sad. No, I will once more raise 
My voice upon the mountain-heights ; once more 
Make my horn parley from their foreheads hoar : 479 
Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall loll 
Around the breathed boar : again I '11 poll 
The fair-grown yew-tree, for a chosen bow : 
And, when the pleasant sun is getting low. 



92 ENDYMION 

Again I '11 linger in a sloping mead 
To tiear the speckled thrushes, and see feed 
Our idle sheep. So be thou cheered, sweet ! 
And, if thy lute is here, softly intreat 
My soul to keep in its resolved course.* 

Hereat Peona, in their silver source, 
Shut her piu-e sorrow-drops with glad exclaim, 490 
And took a lute, from which there pulsing came 
A lively prelude, fashioning the way 
In which her voice should wander. 'T was a lay 
More subtle cadenced, more forest wild 
Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child ; 
And nothing since has floated in the air 
So mournful strange. Surely some influence rare 
Went, spiritual, through the damsel's hand ; 
For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spann'd 499 
The quick invisible strings, even though she saw 
Endymion's spirit melt away and thaw 
Before the deep intoxication. 
But soon she came, with sudden burst, upon 
Her self-possession — swung the lute aside. 
And earnestly said: 'Brother, 'tis vain to hide 
That thou dost know of things mysterious. 
Immortal, starry ; such alone could thus 
Weigh down thy nature. Hast thou sinn'd in aught 
Offensive to the heavenly powers ? Caught 
A Paphian dove upon a message sent ? 510 

Thy deathf ul bow against some deer-herd bent, 
Sacred to Dian ? Haply, thou hast seen 
Her naked limbs among the alders green ; 
And that, alas ! is death ! No, I can trace 
Something more high perplexing in thy face ! ' 

Endymion look'd at her, and press'd her hand. 
And said, ' Art thou so pale, who wast so bland 
And merry in our meadows ? How is this ? 
Tell me thine ailment : tell me all amiss ! — 



BOOK FIRST 93 

Ah ! thou hast been unhappy at the change 520 

Wrought suddenly in me. What indeed more 

strange ? 
Or more complete to overwhelm surmise ? 
Ambition is no sluggard : 'tis no prize, 
That toiling years would put within my grasp, 
That I have sigh'd for : with so deadly gasp 
No man e'er panted for a mortal love. 
So all have set my heavier grief above 
These things which happen. Rightly have they 

done : 
I, who still saw the horizontal sun 
Heave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of the 

world, 530 

Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'd 
My spear aloft, as signal for the chase — 
I, who, for very sport of heart, would race 
With my own steed from Araby ; pluck down 
A vulture from his towery perching ; frown 
A lion into growling, loth retire — 
To lose, at once, all my toil-breeding fire, 
And sink thus low ! but I will ease my breast 
Of secret grief, here in this bowery nest. 

' This river does not see the naked sky, 540 

Till it begins to progress silverly 
Around the western border of the wood. 
Whence, from a certain spot, its winding flood 
Seems at the distance like a crescent moon : 
And in that nook, the very pride of June, 
Had I been used to pass my weary eves ; 
The rather for the sun unwilling leaves 
So dear a picture of his sovereign power, 
And I could witness his most kingly hour. 
When he doth tighten up the golden reins, 550 

And paces leisurely down amber plains 
His snorting four. Now when his chariot last 
Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast, 



94 ENDYMION 

There blossom'd suddenly a magic bed 
Of sacred ditamy, and poppies red : 
At which I wondered greatly, knowing well 
That but one night had wrought this flowery spell ; 
And, sitting down close by, began to muse 
What it might mean. Perhaps, thought I, Mor- 
pheus, 
In passing here, his owlet pinions shook ; 560 

Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptook 
Her ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth. 
Had dipt his rod in it : such garland wealth 
Came not by common growth. Thus on I thought, 
Until my head was dizzy and distraught. 
Moreover, through the dancing poppies stole 
A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul ; 
And shaping visions all about my sight 
Of colours, wings, and bursts of spangly light ; 
The which became more strange, and strange, and 
dim, 570 

And then were gulf'd in a tumultuous swim : 
And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell 
The enchantment that afterwards befell ? 
Yet it was but a dream : yet such a dream 
That never tongue, although it overteem 
With mellow utterance, like a cavern spring, 
Could figure out and to conception bring 
All I beheld and felt. Methought I lay 
Watching the zenith, where the milky way 
Among the stars in virgin splendour pours ; 580 

And travelling my eye, until the doors 
Of heaven appear' d to open for my flight, 
I became loth and fearful to alight 
From such high soaring by a downward glance: 
So kept me steadfast in that airy trance. 
Spreading imaginary pinions wide. 
When, presently, the stars began to glide, 
And faint away, before my eager view: 
At which I sigh'd that I could not pursue, 



BOOK FIRST 95 

And dropt my vision to the horizon's verge ; 590 

And lo ! from opening clouds, I saw emerge 

The loveliest moon, that ever silver'd o'er 

A shell for Neptune's goblet ; she did soar 

So passionately bright, my dazzled soul 

Commingling with her argent spheres did roll 

Through clear and cloudy, even when she went 

At last into a dark and vapoury tent — 

Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed train 

Of planets all were in the blue again. 

To commune with those orbs, once more I raised 600 

My sight right upward : but it was quite dazed 

By a bright something, sailing down apace, 

Making me quickly veil my eyes and face : 

Again I look'd, and, O ye deities. 

Who from Olympus watch our destinies ! 

Whence that completed form of all completeness ? 

Whence came that high perfection of all sweetness ? 

Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, O where 

Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair ? 

Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun ; 610 

Not — thy soft hand, fair sister ! let me shun 

Such foUying before thee — yet she had, 

Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad ; 

And they were simply gordian'd up and braided. 

Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded, 

Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed brow ; 

The which were blended in, I know not how, 

With such a paradise of lips and eyes, 

Blush-tinted cheeks, half-smiles, and faintest sighs. 

That, when I think thereon, my spirit clings 620 

And plays about its fancy, till the stings 

Of human neighbourhood envenom all. 

Unto what awful power shall I call ? 

To what high fane ? — Ah ! see her hovering feet. 

More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whitely sweet 

Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose 

From out her cradle shell. The wind out-blows 



96 ENDYMION 

Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion ; 

'T is blue, and over-spangled with a million 

Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed 630 

Over the darkest, lushest bluebell bed, 

Handfuls of daisies.' — 'Endymion, how strange ! 

Dream within dream ! ' — ' She took an airy range, 

And then, towards me, like a very maid, 

Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid. 

And press'd me by the hand : Ah ! 't was too much ; 

Methought I fainted at the charaied touch, 

Yet held my recollection, even as one 

Who dives three fathoms where the waters run 

Gurgling in beds of coral : for anon, 640 

I felt upmounted in that region 

Where falling stars dart their artillery forth, 

And eagles struggle with the buffeting north 

That balances the heavy meteor-stone ; — 

Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone, 

But lapp'd and lull'd along the dangerous sky. 

Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journeying high, 

And straightway into frightful eddies swoop'd ; 

Such as ay muster where gray time has scoop'd 

Huge dens and caverns in a mountain's side : 650 

There hollow sounds aroused me, and I sigh'd 

To faint once more by looking on my bliss — 

I was distracted ; madly did I kiss 

The wooing arms which held me, and did give 

My eyes at once to death : but 't was to live. 

To take in draughts of life from the gold fount 

Of kind and passionate looks ; to count, and count 

The moments, by some greedy help that seem'd 

A second self, that each might be redeem'd 

And plunder'd of its load of blessedness. 660 

Ah, desperate mortal ! I ev'n dared to press 

Her very cheek against my crowned lip, 

And, at that moment, felt my body dip 

Into a warmer air : a moment more, 

Our feet were soft in flowers. There was store 



BOOK FIRST 97 

Of newest joys upon that alp. Sometimes 

A scent of violets, and blossoming limes, 

Loiter'd around us ; then of honey cells, 

Made delicate from all white-flower bells ; 

And once, above the edges of our nest, 670 

An arch face peep'd, — an Oread as I guess'd. 

' Why did I dream that sleep o'erpower'd me 
In midst of all this heaven ? Why not see. 
Far off, the shadows of his pinions dark, 
And stare them from me ? But no, like a spark 
That needs must die, although its little beam 
Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream 
Fell into nothing — into stupid sleep. 
And so it was, until a gentle creep, 
A careful moving caught my waking ears, 680 

And up I started : Ah ! my sighs, my tears. 
My clenched hands ; — for lo ! the poppies hung 
Dew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel sung 
A heavy ditty, and the sullen day 
Had chidden herald Hesperus away, 
With leaden looks : the solitary breeze 
Bluster'd, and slept, and its wild self did tease 
With wayward melancholy ; and I thought, 
Mark me, Peona ! that sometimes it brought 689 

Faint fare- thee- wells, and sigh-shrillcd adieus ! — 
Away I wander'd — all the pleasant hues 
Of heaven and earth had faded : deepest shades 
Were deepest dungeons ; heaths and sunny glades 
Were full of pestilent light ; our taintless rills 
Seem'd sooty, and o'erspread with upturn'd gills 
Of dying fish ; the vermeil rose had blown 
In frightful scarlet, and its thorns outgrown 
Like spiked aloe. If an innocent bird 
Before my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and stirr'd 
In little journeys, I beheld in it 700 

A disguised demon, missioned to knit 



98 • ENDYMION 

My soul with under darkness ; to entice 
My stumblings down some monstrous precipice : 
Therefore I eager follow'd, and did curse 
The disappointment. Time, that aged nurse, 
Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle heaven ! 
These things, with all their comfortings, are given 
To my down-sunken hours, and with thee, 
Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea 
Of weary life.' 

Thus ended he, and both 710 

Sat silent : for the maid was very loth 
To answer ; feeling well that breathed words 
Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords 
Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps 
Of grasshoppers against the sun. She weeps. 
And wonders ; struggles to devise some blame ; 
To put on such a look as would say, Shame 
On this poor weakness ! but, for all her strife, 
She could as soon have crush'd away the life 719 

From a sick dove. At length, to break the pause, 
She said with trembling chance : ' Is this the cause ? 
This all ? Yet it is strange, and sad, alas ! 
That one who through this middle earth should pass 
Most like a sojourning demi-god, and leave 
His name upon the harp-string, should achieve 
No higher bard than simple maidenhood, 
Singing alone, and fearfully, — how the blood 
Left his young cheek ; and how he used to stray 
He knew not where ; and how he would say, nay, 
If any said 't was love: and yet 't was love ; 730 

What could it be but love ? How a ringdove 
Let fall a sprig of yew-tree in his path ; 
And how he died : and then, that love doth scathe 
The gentle heart, as northern blasts do roses ; 
And then the ballad of his sad life closes 
With sighs, and an alas ! — Endymion ! 
Be rather in the trumpet's mouth, — anon 



BOOK FIRST 99 

Among the winds at large — that all may hearken ! 

Although, before the crystal heavens darken, 

I watch and dote upon the silver lakes 740 

Pictured in western cloudiness, that takes 

The semblance of gold rocks and bright gold sands, 

Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted strands 

With horses prancing o'er them, palaces 

And towers of amethyst, — would I so tease 

My pleasant days, because I could not mount 

Into those regions ? The Morphean fount 

Of that fine element that visions, dreams, 

And fitful whims of sleep are made of, streams 

Into its airy channels with so subtle, 750 

So thin a breathing, not the spider's shuttle. 

Circled a million times within the space 

Of a swallow's nest-door, could delay a trace, 

A tinting of its quality : how light 

Must dreams themselves be ; seeing they 're more 

slight 
Than the mere nothing that engenders them ! 
Then wherefore sully the entrusted gem 
Of high and noble life with thoughts so sick ? 
Why pierce high-fronted honour to the quick 
For nothing but a dream ?' Hereat the youth 760 
Look'd up : a conflicting of shame and ruth 
Was in his plaited brow : yet his eyelids 
Widen'd a little, as when Zephyr bids 
A little breeze to creep between the fans 
Of careless butterflies : amid his pains 
He seem'd to taste a drop of manna-dew, 
Full palatable ; and a colour grew 
Upon his cheek, while thus he lifeful spake. 

* Peona ! ever have I long'd to slake 
My thirst for the world's praises : nothing base, 770 
No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlace 
The stubborn canvas for my voyage prepared — 
Though now 't is tatter'd ; leaving my bark bared 



100 ENDYMION 

And sullenly drifting : yet my higher hope 

Is of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope, 

To fret at myriads of earthly wrecks. 

Wherein lies happiness ? In that which becks 

Our ready minds to fellowship divine, 

A fellowship with essence ; till we shine, 

Full alchemized, and free of space. Behold 780 

The clear religion of heaven ! Fold 

A rose leaf round thy finger's taperness, 

And soothe thy lips : hist, when the airy stress 

Of music's kiss impregnates the free winds. 

And with a sympathetic touch unbinds 

^olian magic from their lucid wombs : 

Then old songs waken from enclouded tombs ; 

Old ditties sigh above their father's grave ; 

Ghosts of melodious prophesyings rave 

Round every spot where trod Apollo's foot ; 790 

Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit. 

Where long ago a giant battle was ; 

And, from the turf, a lullaby doth pass 

In every place where infant Orpheus slept. 

Feel we these things ? — that moment have we 

stept 
Into a sort of oneness, and our state 
Is like a floating spirit's. But there are 
Richer entanglements, enthralments far 
More self -destroying, leading, by degrees. 
To the chief intensity : the crown of these 800 

Is made of love and friendship, and sits high 
Upon the forehead of humanity. 
All its more ponderous and bulky worth 
Is friendship, whence there everissues forth 
A steady splendour ; but at the tip-top, 
There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop 
Of light, and that is love : its influence 
Thrown in our eyes genders a novel sense. 
At which we start and fret : till in the end, 
Melting into its radiance, we blend, 810 



« 



BOOK FIRST loi 

Mingle, and so become a part of it, — 

Nor with aught else can our souls interknit 

So wingedly : when we combine therewith, 

Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith. 

And we are nurtured like a pelican brood. 

Aye, so delicious is the unsating food. 

That men, who might have tower'd in the van 

Of all the congregated world, to fan 

And winnow from the coming step of time 

All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime 820 

Left by men-slugs and human serpentry, 

Have been content to let occasion die. 

Whilst they did sleep in love's Elysium. 

And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb. 

Than speak against this ardent listlessness : 

For I have ever thought that it might bless 

The world with benefits unknowingly ; 

As does the nightingale, up-perched high, 

And cloister'd among cool and bunched leaves — 

She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives 830 

How tiptoe Night holds back her dark-gray hood. 

Just so may love, although 't is understood 

The mere commingling of passionate breath. 

Produce more than our searching witnesseth : 

What I know not : but who, of men, can tell 

That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit 

would swell 
To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail, 
The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale. 
The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones 
The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, 840 

Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet. 
If human souls did never kiss and greet ? 

* Now, if this earthly love has power to make 
Men's being mortal, immortal ; to shake 
Ambition from their memories, and brim 
Their measure of content : what merest whim, 



I02 ENDYMION 

Seems all tliis poor endeavour after fame, 

To one, who keeps within his steadfast aim 

A love immortal, an immortal too. 

Look not so wilder' d ; for these things are true 850 

And never can be born of atomies 

That buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies, 

Leaving us fancy-sick, 'l^o, no, I 'm sure, 

My restless spirit never could endure 

To brood so long upon one luxury, 

Unless it did, though fearfully, espy 

A hope beyond the shadow of a dream, d] 

My sayings will the less obscured seem 

When I have told thee how my waking sight 

Has made me scruple whether that same night 860 

Was pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Peona ! 

Beyond the matron-temple of Latona, 

Which we should see but for these darkening 

boughs, 
Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows 
Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart, 
And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught, 
And spreaded tail, a vulture could hot glide 
Past them, but he must brush on every side. 
Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool cell, 
Far as the slabbed margin of a well, 870 

Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye 
Right upward, through the bushes, to the sky. 
Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks 

set 
Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet 
Edges them round, and they have golden pits: 
'T was there I got them, from the gaps and slits 
In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat. 
When all above was faint with mid-day heat. 
And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed, 
I 'd bubble up the water through a reed ; 880 

So reaching back to boyhood : make me ships 
Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips, 



BOOK FIRST 103 

With leaves stuck in them ; and the Neptune be 

Of their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily, 

When lovelorn hours had left me less a child, 

I sat contemplating the figures wild 

Of o'erhead clouds melting the mirror through. 

Upon a day, vs^hile thus I watch'd, by fliew 

A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver ; 

So plainly character'd, no breeze would shiver 890 

The happy chance : so happy, I was fain 

To follow it upon the open plain, 

And, therefore, was just going; when, behold! 

A wonder, fair as any I have told — 

The same bright face I tasted in my sleep, 

Smiling in the clear well. My heart did leap 

Through the cool depth. — It moved as if to flee — 

I started up, when lo ! refreshfully. 

There came upon my face, in plenteous showers, 

Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and flowers. 

Wrapping all obj ects from my smother'd sight, 901 

Bathing my spirit in a new delight. 

Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss 

Alone preserved me from the drear abyss 

Of death, for the fair form had gone again. 

Pleasure is oft a visitant ; but pain 

Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth 

On the deer's tender haunches: late, and loth, 

'T is scared away by slow returning pleasure. 

How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure 910 

Of weary days, made deeper exquisite. 

By a foreknowledge of unslumbrous night ! 

Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still, 

Than when I wander'd from the poppy hill : 

And a whole age of lingering moments crept 

Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept 

Away at once the deadly yellow spleen. 

Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen ; 

Once more been tortured with renewed life. 

When last the wintry gusts gave over strife 920 



I04 ENDYMION 

With the conquering sun of spring, and left the 

skies 
Warm and serene, but yet with moisten'd eyes 
In pity of the shatter'd infant buds, — 
That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs, 
My hunting cap, because I laugh'd and smiled, 
Chatted with thee, and many days exiled 
All torment from my breast ; — 't was even then, 
Straying about, yet coop'd up in the den 
Of helpless discontent, —hurling my lance 
From place to place, and following at chance, 930 
At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck, 
And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck 
In the middle of a brook, — whose silver ramble 
Down twenty little falls through reeds and bram- 
ble. 
Tracing- along, it brought me to a cave. 
Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave 
The nether sides of mossy stones and rock, — 
'Mong which it gurgled blithe adieus, to mock 
Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, 939 

Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and spread 
Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's home. 
" Ah ! impious mortal, whither do I roam ! " 
Said I, low- voiced : " Ah, whither ! 'Tis the grot 
Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot, 
Doth her resign ; and where her tender hands 
She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands : 
Or 't is the cell of Echo, where she sits. 
And babbles thorough silence, till her wits 
Are gone in tender madness, and anon. 
Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone 950 

Of sadness. O that she would take my vows, 
And breathe them sighingly among the boughs, 
To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head. 
Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed. 
And weave them dyingly — send honey-whispers 
Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispera 



BOOK FIRST 105 

May sigh my love unto her pitying ! 

charitable Echo ! hear, and sing 

This ditty to her ! — tell her " — So I stay'd 

My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid, 960 

Stood stupefied with my own empty folly, 

And blushing for the freaks of melancholy. 

Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name 

Most fondly lipp'd, and then these accents came : 

" Endymion ! the cave is secreter 

Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir 

No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise 

Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys 

And trembles through my labyrinthine hair." 

At that oppress'd, I hurried in. — Ah ! where 970 

Are those swift moments ? Whither are they fled ? 

1 '11 smile no more, Peona ; nor will wed 
Sorrow, the way to death ; but patiently 
Bear up against it : so farewell, sad sigh ; 
And come instead demurest meditation, 
To occupy me wholly, and to fashion 

My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink, 

Ko more will I count over, link by link, 

My chain of grief : no longer strive to find 

A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind 980 

Blustering about my ears : aye, thou shalt see, 

Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be ; 

"What a calm round of hours shall make my days. 

There is a paly flame of hope that plays 

Where'er I look ; but yet, I '11 say 't is naught — 

And here I bid it die. Have not I caught. 

Already, a more healthy countenance ? 

By this the sun is setting ; we may chance 

Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car.' 

This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star 990 

Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand : 
They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land. 



io6 ENDYMION 



BOOK II 



O SOVEREIGN power of love ! O grief ! O balm ! 
All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm, 
And shadowy, through the mist of passed years : 
For others, good or bad, hatred and tears 
Have become indolent ; but touching thine, 
One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine. 
One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days. 
The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their 

blaze, 
Stiff -holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades, 
Struggling, and blood, and' shrieks — all dimly 

fades lo 

Into some backward corner of the brain ; 
Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain 
The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet. 
Hence, pageant history ! hence, gilded cheat ! 
Swart planet in the universe of deeds ! 
Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds 
Along the pebbled shore of memory ! 
Many old rotten-timber'd boats there be 
Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified 
To goodly vessels ; many a sail of pride, 20 

And golden-keel'd, is left unlaunch'd and dry. 
But wherefore this ? What care, though owl did 

fly 

About the great Athenian admiral's mast ? 

What care, though striding Alexander past 

The Indus with his Macedonian numbers ? 

Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers 

The glutted Cyclops, what care ? — Juliet leaning 

Amid her window-flowers, — sighing, — weaning 

Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow. 

Doth more avail than these ; the silver flow 30 

Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, 

Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den, 



BOOK SECOND 107 

Are things to brood on with more ardency 

Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully 

Must such conviction come upon his head, 

Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread, 

Without one muse's smile, or kind behest, 

The path of love and poesy. But rest. 

In chafing restlessness, is yet more drear 

Than to be crush'd, in striving to uprear 40 

Love's standard on the battlements of song. 

So once more days and nights aid me along. 

Like legion'd soldiers. 

Brain-sick shepherd-prince, 
What promise hast thou faithful guarded since 
The day of sacrifice ? Or, have new sorrows 
Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows ? 
Alas ! 't is his old grief. For many days. 
Has he been wandering in uncertain ways : 
Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks ; 
Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes 50 
Of the lone wood-cutter ; and listening stiU, 
Hour after hour, to each lush-leaved rill. 
Now he is sitting by a shady spring, 
And elbow-deep with feverous fingering 
Stems the upbursting cold : a wild rose tree 
Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see 
A bud which snares his fancy : lo ! but now 
He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water : how ! 
It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight ; 
And, in the middle, there is softly pight 60 

A golden butterfly ; upon whose wings 
There must be surely character'd strange things, 
For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft. 

Lightly this little herald flew aloft, 
Follow'd by glad Endymion's clasped hands : 
Onward it flies. From languor's sullen bands 
His limbs are loosed, and eager, on he hies 



io8 ENDYMION 

Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies. 

It seem'd lie flew, the way so easy was ; 

And like a new-born spirit did he pass ^o 

Through the green evening quiet in the sun, 

O'er many a heath, through many a woodland 

dun, 
Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams 
The summer time away. One track unseams 
A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue 
Of ocean fades upon him ; then, anew. 
He sinks adown a solitary glen, 
Where there was never sound of mortal men, 
Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences 
Melting to silence, when upon the breeze 80 

Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet, 
To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet 
Went swift beneath the merry-winged guide. 
Until it reach'd a splashing fountain's side 
That, near a cavern's mouth, for ever pour'd 
Unto the temperate air : then high it soar'd. 
And, downward, suddenly began to dip, 
As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sip 
The crystal spout-head : so it did, with touch 
Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch, 90 

Even with mealy gold, the waters clear. 
But, at that very touch, to disappear 
So fairy-quick, was strange ! Bewildered, 
Endymion sought around, and shook each bed 
Of covert flowers in vain ; and then he flung 
Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue, 
What whisperer, disturb'd his gloomy rest ? 
It was a nymph uprisen to the breast 
In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood 
'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood. 100 

To him her dripping hand she softly kist. 
And anxiously began to plait and twist 
Her ringlets round her lingers, saying : ' Youth 1 
Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the ruth, 



BOOK SECOND 109 

The bitterness of love : too long indeed, 

Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed 

The soul of care, by heavens, I would offer 

All the bright riches of my crystal coffer, 

To Amphitrite ; all my clear-eyed fish, 

Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, no 

Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze ; 

Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws 

A virgin light to the deep ; my grotto- sands, 

Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far lands 

By my diligent springs : my level lilies, shells, 

My charming rod, my potent river spells ; 

Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cup 

Meander gave me, — for I bubbled up 

To fainting creatures in a desert wild. 

But woe is me, I am but as a child 120 

To gladden thee ; and all I dare to say, 

Is, that I pity thee ; that on this day 

I 've been thy guide ; that thou must wander far 

In other regions, past the scanty bar 

To mortal steps, before thou canst be ta'en 

From every wasting sigh, from every pain, 

Into the gentle bosom of thy love. 

Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above : 

But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewell ! 

I have a ditty for my hollow cell.' 130 

Hereat she vanish'd from Endymion's gaze, 
Who brooded o'er the water in amaze : 
The dashing fount pour'd on, and where its pool 
Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool, 
Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still, 
And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill 
Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer, 
Holding his forehead to keep off the burr 
Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down ; 
And, while beneath the evening's sleepy frown 140 
Glowworms began to trim their starry lamps, 



no ENDYMION 

Thus breathed he to himself : * Whoso encamps 
To take a fancied city of delight, 

what a wretch is he ! and when 'tis his, 
After long toil and travelling, to miss 

The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile : 

Yet, for him there 's refreshment even in toil : 

Another city doth he set about, 

Free from the smallest pebble-bead of doubt 

That he will seize on trickling honey-combs : 150 

Alas, he finds them dry ; and then he foams, 

And onward to another city speeds. 

But this is human life : the war, the deeds. 

The disappointment, the anxiety. 

Imagination's struggles, far and nigh, 

All human ; bearing in themselves this good, 

That they are still the air, the subtle food. 

To make us feel existence, and to show 

How quiet death is. Where soil is, men grow. 

Whether to weeds or flowers ; but for me, 160 

There is no depth to strike in : I can see 

Naught earthly worth my compassing ; so stand 

Upon a misty, jutting head of land — 

Alone ? No, no ; and by the Orphean lute, 

When mad Eurydice is listening to 't, 

1 'd rather stand upon this misty peak. 
With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek, 
But the soft shadow of my thrice seen love, 

Than be — I care not what. O meekest dove 169 
Of heaven ! O Cynthia, ten times bright and fair ! 
From thy blue throne, now filling all the air. 
Glance but one little beam of temper'd light 
Into my bosom, that the dreadful night 
And tyranny of love be somewhat scared ! 
Yet do not so, sweet queen ; one torment spared, 
Would give a pang to jealous misery. 
Worse than the torment's self: but rather tie 
Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out 
My love's far dwelling. Though the playful rout 



BOOK SECOND ill 

Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou, i8o 

Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow 

Not to have dipp'd in love's most gentle stream. 

O be propitious, nor severely deem 

My madness impious ; for, by all the stars 

That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars 

That kept my spirit in are burst — that I 

Am sailing vv^ith thee through the dizzy sky ! 

How beautiful thou art ! The world how deep ! 

How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep 

Around their axle ! Then these gleaming reins, 190 

How lithe ! When this thy chariot attains 

Its airy goal, haply some bower veils 

Those twilight eyes ? Those eyes ! — my spirit 

fails — 
Dear goddess, help ! or the wide gaping air 
Will gulf me — help ! ' — At this, with madden'd 

stare. 
And lifted hands, and trembling lips, he stood ; 
Like old Deucalion mountain'd o'er the flood, 
Or blind Orion hungry for the morn. 
And, but from the deep cavern there was borne 
A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone ; 200 
Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion'd moan 
Had more been heard. Thus swell'd it forth : ' De- 
scend, 
Young mountaineer ! descend where alleys bend 
Into the sparry hollows of the world ! 
Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurl'd 
As from thy threshold ; day by day hast been 
A little lower than the chilly sheen 
Of icy pinnacles, and dipp'dst thine arms 
Into the deadening ether that still charms 
Their marble being : now, as deep profound 210 

As those are high, descend ! He ne'er is crown'd 
With immortality, who fears to follow 
Where airy voices lead: so through the hollow, 
The silent mysteries of earth, descend ! ' 



112 ENDYMION 

He heard but the last words, nor could contend 
One moment in reflection : for he fled 
Into the fearful deep, to hide his head 
From the clear moon, the trees, and coming mad- 
ness. 

'T was far too strange, and wonderful for sad- 
ness ; 
Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite 220 

To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light, 
The region ; nor bright, nor sombre wholly, 
But mingled up ; a gleaming melancholy ; 
A dusky empire and its diadems ; 
One faint eternal eventide of gems. 
Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold, 
Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told, 
With all its lines abrupt and angular: 
Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star. 
Through a vast autre ; then the metal woof, 230 

Like Vulcan's rainbow, with some monstrous roof 
Curves hugely : now, far in the deep abyss, 
It seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss 
Fancy into belief : anon it leads 
Through winding passages, where sameness breeds 
Vexing conceptions of some sudden change ; 
Whether to silver grots, or giant range 
Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge 
Athwart a flood of crystal. On a ridge 
Now fareth he, that o'er the vast beneath 240 

Towers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he seeth 
A hundred waterfalls, whose voices come 
But as the murmuring surge. Chilly and numb 
His bosom grew, when first he, far away, 
Descried an orbed diamond, set to fray 
Old Darkness from his throne : 't was like the sun 
Uprisen o'er chaos: and with such a stun 
Came the amazement, that, absorb'd in it, 
He saw not fiercer wonders — past the wit 



BOOK SECOND 113 

Of any spirit to tell, but one of those 250 

"Who, when this planet's sphering time doth close 

Will be its high remembrancers : who they ? 

The mighty ones who have made eternal day 

For Greece and England. While astonishment 

With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he went 

Into a marble gallery, passing through 

A mimic temple, so complete and true 

In sacred custom, that he well nigh fear'd 

To search it inwards ; whence far off appear'd, 

Through a long pillar'd vista, a fair shrine, 260 

And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine, 

A quiver'd Dian. Stepping awfully, 

The youth approach'd ; oft turning his veil'd eye 

Down sidelong aisles, and into niches old : 

And when, more near against the marble cold 

He had touch'd his forehead, he began to thread 

All courts and passages, where silence dead, 

Roused by his whispering footsteps, murmur'd 

faint : 
And long he traversed to and fro, to acquaint 
Himself with every mystery, and awe ; 270 

Till, weary, he sat down before the maw 
Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim, 
To wild uncertainty and shadows grim. 
There, when new wonders ceased to float before, 
And thoughts of self came on, how crude and sore 
The journey homeward to habitual self ! 
A mad pursuing of the fog-born elf, 
Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-brier. 
Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire, 
Into the bosom of a hated thing. 280 

What misery most drowningly doth sing 
In lone Endymion's ear, now he has raught 
The goal of consciousness ? Ah, 'tis the thought, 
The deadly feel of solitude : for lo ! 
He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow 



114 ENDYMION 

Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild 

In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-piled. 

The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west, 

Like herded elephants ; nor felt, nor prest 

Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air ; 290 

But far from such companionship to wear 

An unknown time, surcharged with grief, away, 

Was now his lot. And must he patient stay, 

Tracing fantastic figures with his spear ? 

' No ! ' exclaim'd he, ' why should I tarry here ? ' 

No ! loudly echoed times innumerable. 

At which he straightway started, and 'gan tell 

His paces back into the temple's chief ; 

"Warming and glowing strong in the belief 

Of help from Dian : so that when again 300 

He caught her airy form, thus did he plain. 

Moving more near the while : ' O Haunter chaste 

Of river sides, and woods, and heathy waste. 

Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen 

Art thou now forested ? O woodland Queen, 

What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos ? 

Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos 

Of thy disparted nymphs ? Through what dark tree 

Glimmers thy crescent ? Wheresoe'er it be, 

'T is in the breath of heaven : thou dost taste 310 

Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost waste 

Thy loveliness in dismal elements ; 

But, finding in our green earth sweet contents, 

There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee 

It feels Elysian, how rich to me, 

An exiled mortal, sounds its pleasant name ! 

Within my breast there lives a choking flame — 

O let me cool 't the zophvr-boughs among ! 

A homeward fever parches up my tongue — 

O let me slake it at the running springs ! 320 

Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings — 

O let me once more hear the linnet's note ! 

Before mine eyes thick films and shadows float — 



1 



i 



BOOK SECOND 115 

let me 'noint them with the heaven's light ! 
Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white ? 
O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice ! 
Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry- juice ? 
O think how this dry palate would rejoice ! 
If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice, 
O think how I should love a bed of flowers ! — 330 
Young goddess ! let me see my native bowers ! 
Deliver me from this rapacious deep ! ' 

• Thus ending loudly, as he would o'erleap 

His destiny, alert he stood : but when 

Obstinate silence came heavily again, 

Feeling about for its old couch of space 

And airy cradle, lowly bow'd his face, 

Desponding, o'er the marble floor's cold thrill. 

But 't was not long ; for, sweeter than the rill 

To its old channel, or a swollen tide 340 

To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied, 

And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns 

Upheaping through the slab : refreshment drowns 

Itself, and strives its own delights to hide — 

Nor in one spot alone ; the floral pride 

In a long whispering birth enchanted grew 

Before his footsteps ; as when heaved anew 

Old ocean rolls a lengthened wave to the shore, 

Down whose green back the short-lived foam, all 

hoar. 
Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence. 350 

Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense, 
Upon his fairy journey on he hastes; 
So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes 
One moment with his hand among the sweets : 
Onward he goes — he stops — his bosom beats 
As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm 
Of which the throbs were born. This still alarm. 



ii6 ENDYMION 

This sleepy music, forced him walk tiptoe : 
For it came more softly than the east could blow 
Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles ; 360 

Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles 
Of throned Apollo, could breathe back the lyre 
To seas Ionian and Tyrian. 

O did he ever live, that lonely man, 
Who loved — and music slew not ? 'Tis the pest 
Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest ; 
That things of delicate and tenderest worth 
Are swallow'd all, and made a seared dearth, 
By one consuming flame : it doth immerse 
And suffocate true blessings in a curse. 370 

Half-happy, by comparison of bliss. 
Is miserable. 'T was even so with this 
Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian's ear ; 
First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear, 
Vanish'd in elemental passion. 

And down some swart abysm he had gone, 
Had not a heavenly guide benignant led 
To where thick myrtle branches, 'gainst his head 
Brushing, awakened : then the sounds again 
"Went noiseless as a passing noontide rain 380 

Over a bower, where little space he stood ; 
For as the sunset peeps into a wood. 
So saw he panting light, and towards it went 
Through winding alleys ; and lo, wonderment ! 
Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there, 
Cupids a-slumbering on their pinions fair. 

After a thousand mazes overgone, 
At last, with sudden step, he came upon 
A chamber, myrtle-wall'd, embower'd high, 
Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy, 390 

And more of beautiful and strange beside : 
For on a silken couch of rosy pride, 



BOOK SECOND 117 

In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth 

Of fondest beauty ; fonder, in fair sooth, 

Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach : 

And coverlids gold-tinted like the peach, 

Or ripe October's faded marigolds. 

Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds — 

Not hiding up an Apollonian curve 

Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerve 400 

Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light ; 

But rather, giving them to the lill'd sight 

Officiously. Sideway his face reposed 

On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed, 

By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth 

To slumbery pout ; j ust as the morning south 

Disparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his head, 

Four lily stalks did their white honours wed 

To make a coronal ; and round him grew 

All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue, 410 

Together intertwin'd and trammell'd fresh : 

The vine of glossy sprout ; the ivy mesh, 

Shading its Ethiop berries ; and woodbine, 

Of velvet-leaves and bugle-blooms divine ; 

Convolvulus in streaked vases flush ; 

The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush ; 

And virgin's boAver, trailing airily ; 

With others of the sisterhood. Hard by, 

Stood serene Cupids watching silently. 

One, kneeling to a lyre, touch'd the strings, 420 

Muffling to death the pathos with his wings ; 

And, ever and anon, uprose to look 

At the youth's slumber ; while another took 

A willow bough, distilling odorous dew. 

And shook it on his hair ; another flew 

In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise 

Rain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes. 

At these enchantments, and yet many more, 
The breathless Latmian wonder'd o'er and o'er ; 



Ii8 ENDYMION 

Until impatient in embarrassment, 430 

He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading went 

To that same feather'd lyrist, who straightway, 

Smiling, thus whisper'd : ' Though from upper day 

Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence here 

Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer ! 

For 't is the nicest touch of human honour. 

When some ethereal and high- favouring donor 

Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense ; 

As now 't is done to thee, Endymion. • Hence 

Was I in no wise startled. So recline 440 

Upon these living flowers. Here is wine, 

Alive with sparkles — never, I aver, 

Since Ariadne was a vintager, 

So cool a purple: taste these juicy pears. 

Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears 

Were high about Pomona : here is cream. 

Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam ; 

Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimm'd 

For the boy Jupiter : and here, undimm'd 

By "any touch, a bunch of blooming plums 450 

Ready to melt between an infant's gums : 

And here is manna pick'd from Syrian trees. 

In starlight, by the three Hesperides. 

Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know 

Of all these things around us.' He did so. 

Still brooding o'er the cadence of his lyre ; 

And thus: ' I need not any hearing tire 

By telling how the sea-born goddess pined 

For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind 

Him all in all unto her doating self. 460 

Who would not be so prison'd ? but, fond elf. 

He was content to let her amorous plea 

Faint through his careless arms ; content to see 

An unseized heaven d3^ing at his feet ; 

Content, O fool ! to make a cold retreat. 

When on the pleasant grass such love, love-lorn, 

Lay sorrowing ; when every tear was born 



BOOK SECOND 119 

Of diverse passion ; when her lips and eyes 

Were closed in sullen moisture, and quick sighs 469 

Came vex'd and pettish through her nostrils small. 

Hush ! no exclaim — yet, justly might' st thou call 

Curses upon his head. — I was half glad, 

But my poor mistress went distract and mad, 

When the boar tusk'd him : so away she flew 

To Jove's high throne, and by her plainings drew 

Immortal tear-drops down the thunderer's beard. 

Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear'd 

Each summer-time to life. Lo ! this is he, 

That same Adonis, safe in the privacy 

Of this still region all his winter-sleep. 480 

Aye, sleep ; for when our love-sick queen did weep 

Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower 

Heal'd up the wound, and, with a balmy power, 

Medicined death to a lengthened drowsiness : 

The which she fills with visions, and doth dress 

In all this quiet luxury ; and hath set 

Us young immortals, without any let. 

To watch his slumber through. 'T is well nigh pass'd, 

Even to a moment's filling up, and fast 

She scuds with summer breezes, to pant through 490 

The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew 

Embower'd sports in Cytherea's isle. 

Look ! how those winged listeners all this while 

Stand anxious: see ! behold ! ' — This clamant w^ord 

Broke through the careful silence ; for they heard 

A rustling noise of leaves, and out there flutter'd 

Pigeons and doves : Adonis something mutter'd. 

The while one hand, that erst upon his thigh 

Lay dormant, moved convulsed and gradually 

Up to his forehead. Then there was a hum 500 

Of sudden voices, echoing, ' Come ! come ! 

Arise ! awake ! Clear summer has forth walk'd 

Unto the clover-sward, and she has talk'd 

Full soothingly to every nested finch : 

Rise, Cupids ! or we '11 give the bluebell pinch 



I20 ENDYMION 

To your dimpled arms. Once more sweet life be- 
gin ! ' 
At this, from every side they hurried in, 
Rubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists, 
And doubling overhead their little fists 
In backward yawns. But all were soon alive : 510 
For, as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive 
In nectar'd clouds and curls through water fair. 
So from the arbour roof down swell'd an air 
Odorous and enlivening ; making all 
To laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly call 
For their sweet queen ; when lo ! the wreathed 

green 
Disparted, and far upward could be seen 
Blue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne. 
Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds of morn, 
Spun off a drizzling dew, — which falling chill 520 
On soft Adonis' shoulders, made him still 
Nestle and turn uneasily about. 
Soon were the white doves plain, with necks 

stretch'd out. 
And silken traces lighten'd in descent ; 
And soon, returning from love's banishment. 
Queen Venus leaning downward open-arm'd : 
Her shadow fell upon his breast, and charm'd 
A tumult to his heart, and a new life 
Into his eyes. Ah, miserable strife, 
But for her comforting ! unhappy sight, 530 

But meeting her blue orbs ! Who, who can write 
Of these first minutes ? The unchariest muse 
To embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse. 

O it has ruffled every spirit there. 
Saving Love's self, who stands superb to share 
The general gladness : awfully he stands ; 
A sovereign quell is in his waving hands ; 
No sight can bear the lightning of his bow ; 
His quiver is mysterious, none can know 



BOOK SECOND 121 

"What themselves think of it ; from forth his eyes 540 

There darts strange light of varied hues and dyes : 

A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but who 

Look full upon it feel anon the blue 

Of his fair eyes run liquid through their souls. 

Endymion feels it, and no more controls 

The burning prayer within him ; so, bent low, 

He had begun a plaining of his woe. 

But Venus, bending forward, said : ' My child, 

Favour this gentle youth ; his days are wild 

With love — he — but alas ! too well I see 550 

Thou know'st the deepness of his misery. 

Ah, smile not so, my son : I tell thee true, 

That when through heavy hours I used to rue 

The endless sleep of this new-born Adon', 

This stranger ay I pitied. For upon 

A dreary morning once I fled away 

Into the breezy clouds, to weep and pray 

For this my love : for vexing Mars had teased 

Me even to tears ; thence, when a little eased, 

Down-looking, vacant, through a hazy wood, 560 

I saw this youth as he despairing stood : 

Those same dark curls blown vagrant in the wind ; 

Those same full fringed lids a constant blind 

Over his sullen eyes : I saw him throw 

Himself on wither'd leaves, even as though 

Death had come sudden ; for no jot he moved. 

Yet mutter'd wildly. I could hear he loved 

Some fair immortal, and that his embrace 

Had zoned her through the night. There is no trace 

Of this in heaven : I have mark'd each cheek, 570 

And find it is the vainest thing to seek ; 

And that of all things 't is kept secretest. 

Endymion ! one day thou wilt be blest : 

So still obey the guiding hand that fends 

Thee safely through these wonders for sweet ends. 

'T is a concealment needful in extreme ; 

And if I guessed not so, the sunny beam 



122 ENDYMION 

Thou shouldst mount up with me. Now adieu ! 
Here must we leave thee.' — At these words upflew 
The impatient doves, uprose the floating car, 580 
Up went the hum celestial. High afar 
The Latmian saw them minish into naught ; 
And, when all were clear vanish'd, still he caught 
A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow. 
When all was darken'd, with ^tnean throe 
The earth closed — gave a solitary moan — 
And left him once again in twilight lone. 

He did not rave, he did not stare aghast, 
For all those visions were o'ergone, and past, 
And he in loneliness : he felt assured 590 

Of happy times, when all he had endured 
Would seem a feather to the mighty prize. 
So, with unusual gladness, on he hies 
Through caves, and palaces of mottled ore, 
Gold dome, and crystal wall, and turquois floor, 
Black polish'd porticoes of awful shade, 
And, at the last, a diamond balustrade, 
Leading afar past wild magnificence. 
Spiral through ruggedest loopholes, and thence 
Stretching across a void, then guiding o'er 600 

Enormous chasms, where, all foam and roar. 
Streams subterranean tease their granite beds ; 
Then heighten'd just above the silvery heads 
Of a thousand fountains, so that he could dash 
The waters with his spear ; but at the splash. 
Done heedlessly, those spouting columns rose 
Sudden a poplar's height, and 'gan to enclose 
His diamond path with fretwork, streaming round 
Alive, and dazzling cool, and with a sound. 
Haply, like dolphin tumults, when sweet shells 610 
Welcome the float of Thetis. Long he dwells 
On this delight ; for, every minute's space. 
The streams with changed magic interlace : 
Sometimes like delicatest lattices, 



BOOK SECOND 123 

Cover'd with crystal vines ; then weeping trees, 

Moving about as in a gentle wind, 

Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refined, 

Pour'd into shapes of curtain'd canopies, 

Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries 

Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads fair. 620 

Swifter than lightning went these wonders rare ; 

And then the water, into stubborn streams 

Collecting, mimick'd the wrought oaken beams, 

Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof, 

Of those dusk places in times far aloof 

Cathedrals call'd. He bade a loth farewell 

To these founts Protean, passing gulf, and dell, 

And torrent, and ten thousand jutting shapes, 

Half seen through deepest gloom, and griesly gapes, 

Blackening on every side, and overhead 630 

A vaulted dome like Heaven's, far bespread 

With starlight gems : aye, all so huge and strange. 

The solitary felt a hurried change 

Working within him into something dreary, — 

Vex'd like a morning eagle, lost, and weary. 

And purblind amid foggy, midnight wolds. 

But he revives at once : for who beholds 

New sudden things, nor casts his mental slough ? 

Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk below. 

Came mother Cybele ! alone — alone — 640 

In sombre chariot ; dark foldings thrown 

About her majesty, and front death-pale, 

With turrets crown'd. Four maned lions hale 

The sluggish wheels ; solemn their toothed maws, 

Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws 

Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails 

Cowering their tawny brushes. Silent sails 

This shadowy queen athwart, and faints away 

In another gloomy arch. 

Wherefore delay, 
Young traveller, in such a mournful place ? 650 



124 ENDYMION 

Art thou wayworn, or canst not further trace 
The diamond path ? And does it indeed end 
Abrupt in middle air ? Yet earthward bend 
Thy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne 
Call ardently! He was indeed waj^worn ; 
Abrupt, in middle air, his way was lost ; 
To cloud-borne Jove he bowed, and there crost 
Towards him a large eagle, 'twixt whose wings, 
Without one impious word, himself he flings. 
Committed to the darkness and the gloom : 660 

Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant doom. 
Swift as a fathoming plummet down he fell 
Through unknown things ; till exhaled asphodel, 
And rose, with spicy fannings interbreathed, 
Came swelling forth where little caves were 

wreathed 
So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seem'd 
Large honeycombs of green, and freshly teem'd 
With airs delicious. In the greenest nook 
The eagle landed him, and farewell took. 

It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown 670 

With golden moss. His every sense had grown 
Ethereal for pleasure ; 'bove his head 
Flew a delight half-graspable ; his tread 
Was Hesperean ; to his capable ears 
Silence was music from the holy spheres ; 
A dewy luxury was in his eyes ; 
The little flowers felt his pleasant sighs 
And stirr'd them faintly. Verdant cave and cell 
He wander'd through, oft wondering at such swell 
Of sudden exaltation * but, 'Alas!' 680 

Said he, ' will all this gush of feeling pass 
Away in solitude ? And must they wane, 
Like melodies upon a sandy plain, 
Without an echo ? Then shall I be left 
So sad, so melancholy, so bereft ! 
Yet still I feel immortal ! O my love, 



BOOK SECOND 125 

My breath of life, where art thou ? High above, 
Dancing before the morning gates of heaven ? 
Or keeping watch among those starry seven, 
Old Atlas' children ? Art a maid of the waters, 690 
One of shell-winding Triton's bright-hair'd daugh- 
ters ? 
Or art, impossible ! a nymph of Dian's, 
Weaving a coronal of tender scions 
For very idleness ? Where'er thou art, 
Methinks it now is at my will to start 
Into thine arms ; to scare Aurora's train, 
And snatch thee from the morning ; o'er the main 
To scud like a wild bird, and take thee off 
From thy«^ea-foamy cradle ; or to doff 
Thy shepherd vest, and woo thee 'mid fresh leaves. 
No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives • 701 

Its powerless self : I know this cannot be. 
O let me then by some sweet dreaming flee 
To her entrancements : hither sleep awhile ! 
Hither most gentle sleep ! and soothing foil 
For some few hours the coming solitude.' 

Thus spake he, and that mom'ent felt endued 
With power to dream deliciously ; so wound 
Through a dim passage, searching till he found 
The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, where 710 
He threw himself, and just into the air 
Stretching his indolent arms, he took, O bliss! 
A naked waist : ' Fair Cupid, whence is this ? ' 
A well-known voice sigh'd, ' Sweetest, here am I! ' 
At which soft ravishment, with doting cry 
They trembled to each other. — Helicon ! 
O fountain'd hill ! Old Homer's Helicon! 
That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet o'er 
These sorry pages ; then the verse would soar 
And sing above this gentle pair, like lark 720 

Over his nested young : but all is dark 
Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount 



126 ENDYMION 

Exhales in mists to heaven. Aye, the count 

Of mighty Poets is made up ; the scroll 

Is folded by the Muses ; the bright roll 

Is in Apollo's hand : our dazed eyes 

Have seen a new tinge in the western skies : 

The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet, 

Although the sun of poesy is set, 

These lovers did embrace, and we must weep 730 

That there is no old power left to steep 

A quill immortal in their joyous tears. 

Long time in silence did their anxious fears 

Question that thus it was : long time they lay 

Fondling and kissing every doubt away ; 

Long time ere soft caressing sobs began 

To mellow into words, and then there ran 

Two bubbling springs of talk from their sweet 

lips. 
* O known Unknown ! from whom my being sips 
Such darling essence, wherefore may I not 740 

Be ever in these arms ? in this sweet spot 
Pillow my chin for ever ? ever press 
These toying hands and kiss their smooth excess ? 
Why not for ever and for ever feel 
That breath about my eyes ? Ah, thou wilt steal 
Away from me again, indeed, indeed — 
Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed 
My lonely madness. Speak, delicious fair. 
Is — is it to be so ? No ! Who will dare 
To pluck thee from me ? And, of thine own 

will, 750 

Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me. Still 
Let me entwine thee surer, surer — now 
How can we part ? Elysium ! Who art thou ? 
Who, that thou canst not be for ever here. 
Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere ? 
Enchantress ! tell me by this soft embrace, 
By the most soft completion of thy face, 
Those lips, O slippery blisses, twinkling eyes, 



BOOK SECOND 127 

And by these tenderest, milky sovereignties — 
These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine, 760 

The passion ' ' O doved Ida the divine ! 

Endymion ! dearest 1 Ah, unhappy me ! 

His soul will 'scape us — O felicity ! 

How he does love me ! His poor temples beat 

To the very tune of love — how sweet, sweet, sweet. 

Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die ; 

Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by 

In tranced dullness ; speak, and let that spell 

Affright this lethargy ! I cannot quell 

Its heavy pressure, and will press at least 770 

My lips to thine, that they may richly feast 

Until we taste the life of love again. 

What ! dost thou move ? dost kiss ? O bliss ! O 

pain ! 
I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive ; 
And so long absence from thee doth bereave 
My soul of any rest : yet must I hence : 
Yet, can I not to starry eminence 
Uplift thee ; nor for very shame can own 
Myself to thee. Ah, dearest, do not groan 
Or thou wilt force me from this secrecy, 780 

And I must blush in heaven. O that I 
Had done it already ; that the dreadful smiles 
At my lost brightness, my impassion'd wiles, 
Had waned from Olympus' solemn height. 
And from all serious Gods ; that our delight 
Was quite forgotten, save of us alone ! 
And wherefore so ashamed ? 'T is but to atone 
For endless pleasure, by some coward blushes : 
Yet must I be a coward ! — Honour rushes 
Too palpable before me — the sad look 790 

Of Jove — Minerva's start — no bosom shook 
With awe of purity — no Cupid pinion 
In reverence veiled — my crystalline dominion 
Half lost, and all old hymns made nullity ! 
But what is this to love ? O I could fly ^'i'd 



128 ENDYMION 

With thee into the ken of heavenly powers, 
So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent hours, 
Press me so sweetly. Now I swear at once 
That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce — 
Perhaps her love like mine is but unknown — 800 

I do think that 1 have been alone 

In chastity: yes, Pallas has been sighing, 
While every eve saw me my hair uptying 
With fingers cool as aspen leaves. Sweet love, 

1 was as vague as solitary dove, 

Nor knew that nests were built. Now a soft kiss — 
Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss. 
An immortality of passion 's thine : 
Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine 
Of heaven ambrosial ; and we will shade 810 

Ourselves whole summers by a river glade ; 
And I will tell thee stories of the sky. 
And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy. 
My happy love will overwing all bounds ! 
O let me melt into thee ; let the sounds 
Of our close voices marry at their birth ; 
Let us entwine hoveringly — O dearth 
Of human words! roughness of mortal speech ! 
Lispings empyrean will I sometime teach 
Thine honey'd tongue — lute-breathings which I 
gasp 820 

To have thee understand, now while I clasp 
Thee thus, and weep for fondness — I am pain'd. 
Endymion : woe ! woe ! is grief contain'd 
In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole life ? ' — 
Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife 
Melted into a languor. He return'd 
Entranced vows and tears. 

Ye who have yearn' d 
With too much passion, will here stay and pity, 
For the mere sake of truth ; as 't is a ditty 
Not of these days, but long ago 't was told 830 

By a cavern wind unto a forest old ; 



BOOK SECOND 129 

And then the forest told it in a dream 

To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level gleam 

A poet caught as he was journeying 

To Phoebus' shrine ; and in it he did fling 

His weary limbs, bathing an hour's space, 

And after, straight in that inspired place 

He sang the story up into the air, 

Giving it universal freedom. There 

Has it been ever sounding for those ears 840 

Whose tips are glowing hot. The legend cheers 

Yon sentinel stars ; and he who listens to it 

Must surely be self-doom'd or he will rue it : 

For quenchless burnings come upon the heart. 

Made fiercer by a fear lest any part 

Should be engulfed in the eddying wind. 

As much as here is penn'd doth always find 

A resting-place, thus much comes clear and plain ; 

Anon the strange voice is upon the wane — 

And 't is but echoed from departing sound, 850 

That the fair visitant at last unwound 

Her gentle limbs, and left the youth asleep. — 

Thus the tradition of the gusty deep. 

Now turn we to our former chroniclers. 
Endymion awoke, that grief of hers 
Sweet paining on his ear : he sickly guess'd 
How lone he was once more, and sadly press'd 
His empty arms together, hung his head. 
And most forlorn upon that widow'd bed 
Sat silently. Love's madness he had known: 860 
Often with more than tortured lion's groan 
Moanings had burst from him ; but now that rage 
Had pass'd away : no longer did he wage 
A rough- voiced war against the dooming stars. 
No, he had felt too much for such harsh jars: 
The lyre of his soul ^olian tuned 
Forgot all violence, and but communed 
With melancholy thought : O he had swoon'd 



I30 ENDYMION 

Drunken from pleasure's nipple ; and his love 

Henceforth was dove-like. — Loth was he to move 870 

From the imprinted couch, and when he did, 

'T was with slow, languid paces, and face hid 

In muffling hands. So temper'd, out he stray'd 

Half seeing visions that might have dismay'd 

Alecto's serpents ; ravishments more keen 

Than Hermes' pipe, when anxious he did lean 

Over eclipsing eyes : and at the last 

It was a sounding grotto, vaulted, vast, 

O'erstudded with a thousand, thousand pearls, 

And crimson-mouthed shells with stubborn curls, 880 

Of every shape and size, even to the bulk 

In which whales harbour close, to brood and sulk 

Against an endless storm. Moreover too. 

Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue, 

Ready to snort their streams. In this cool wonder 

Endymion sat down, and 'gan to ponder 

On all his life : his youth, up to the day 

"When 'mid acclaim, and feasts, and garlands gay. 

He stept upon his shepherd throne : the look 

Of his white palace in wild forest nook, 890 

And all the revels he had lorded there : 

Each tender maiden whom he once thought fair, 

With every friend and fellow-woodlander — 

Pass'd like a dream before him. Then the spur 

Of the old bards to mighty deeds : his plans 

To nurse the golden age 'niong shepherd clans : 

That wondrous night : the great Pan festival : 

His sister's sorrow ; and his wanderings all, 

Until into the earth's deep maw he rush'd : 

Then all its buried magic, till it tiush'd 900 

High with excessive love. ' And now,' thought he, 

' How long must I remain in jeopardy 

Of blank amazements that amaze no more ? 

Now I have tasted her sweet soul to the core, 

All other depths are shallow ; essences, 

Once spiritual, are like muddy lees, 



I 



i 



BOOK SECOND 131 

Meant but to fertilize my earthly root, 

And make my branches lift a golden fruit 

Into the bloom of heaven : other light, 

Though it be quick and sharp enough to blight 910 

The Olympian eagle's vision, is dark. 

Dark as the parentage of chaos. Hark ! 

My silent thoughts are echoing from these shells ; 

Or they are but the ghosts, the dying swells 

Of noises far away ? — list ! ' — Hereupon 

He kept an anxious ear. The humming tone 

Came louder, and behold, there as he lay, 

On either side outgush'd, with misty spray, 

A copious spring ; and both together dash'd 

Swift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and lash'd 920 

Among the conchs and shells of the lofty grot, 

Leaving a trickling dew. At last they shot 

Down from the ceiling's height, pouring a noise 

As of some breathless racers whose hopes poise 

Upon the last few steps, and with spent force 

Along the ground they took a winding course. 

Endymion follow'd — for it seem'd that one 

Ever pursued, the other strove to shun — 

Follow'd their languid mazes, till well nigh 

He had left thinking of the mystery, — 930 

And was now rapt in tender hoverings 

Over the vanish'd bliss. Ah ? what is it sings 

His dream away ? What melodies are these ? 

They sound as through the whispering of trees, 

Not native in such barren vaults. Give ear ! 

' O Arethusa, peerless nymph ! why fear 
Such tenderness as mine ? Great Dian, why, 
Why didst thou hear her prayer ? O that I 
Were rippling round her dainty fairness now, 
Circling about her waist, and striving how 940 

To entice her to a dive ! then stealing in 
Between her luscious lips and eyelids thin. 
O that her shining hair was in the sun, 



/ 



132 ENDYMION 

And I distilling from it thence to run 

In amorous rillets down her shrinking form ! 

To linger on her lily shoulders, warm 

Between her kissing breasts, and every charm 

Touch raptured ! — see how painfully I flow : 

Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe. 

Stay, stay thy weary course, and let me lead, 950 

A happy wooer, to the flowery mead 

Where all that beauty snared me. ' — ' Cruel god, 

Desist ! or my offended mistress' nod 

Will stagnate all thy fountains : — tease me not 

With siren words — Ah, have I really got 

Such power to madden thee ? And is it true — 

Away, away, or I shall dearly rue 

My very thoughts : in mercy then away, 

Kindest Alpheus, for should I obey 

My own dear will, 't would be a deadly bane.' 960 

' O, Oread-Queen ! would that thou hadst a pain 

Like this of mine, then would I fearless turn 

And be a criminal.' ' Alas, I burn, 

I shudder — gentle river, get thee hence. 

Alpheus ! thou enchanter ! every sense 

Of mine was once made perfect in these woods. 

Fresh breezes, bowery lawns, and innocent floods, 

Kipe fruits, and lonely couch, contentment gave ; 

But ever since I heedlessly did lave 

In thy deceitful stream, a panting glow 970 

Grew strong within me : wherefore serve me so. 

And call it love ? Alas ! 't was cruelty. 

Not once more did I close my happy eye 

Amid the thrush's song. Away ! a vaunt ! 

O 't was a cruel thing.' — ' Now thou dost taunt 

So softly, Arethusa, that I think 

If thou wast playing on iny shady brink, 

Thou wouldst bathe once again. Innocent maid ! 

Stifle thine heart no more ; — nor be afraid 

Of angry powers : there are deities 980 

Will shade us with their wings. Those fitful sighs 



BOOK SECOND 133 

'T is almost death to hear : O let me pour 

A dewy balm upon them ! — fear no more, 

Sweet Arethusa ! Dian's self must feel 

Sometimes these very pangs. Dear maiden, steal 

Blushing into my soul, and let us fly 

These dreary caverns for the open sky. 

I will delight thee all my winding course, 

From the green sea up to my hidden source 

About Arcadian forests ; and will show 990 

The channels where my coolest waters flow 

Through mossy rocks ; where 'mid exuberant green, 

I roam in pleasant darkness, more unseen 

Than Saturn in his exile ; where I brim 

Round flowery islands, and take thence a skim 

Of mealy sweets, which myriads of bees 

Buzz from their honey'd wings : and thou shouldst 

please 
Thyself to choose the richest, where we might 
Be inoense-pillow'd every summer night. 
Doff all sad fears, thou white deliciousness, 1000 

And let us be thus comforted ; unless 
Thou couldst rejoice to see my hopeless stream 
Hurry distracted from Sol's temperate beam. 
And pour to death along some hungry sands.' — 
' What can I do, Alpheus ? Dian stands 
Severe before me : persecuting fate ! 
Unhappy Arethusa ! thou wast late 
A huntress free in ' — At this, sudden fell 
Those two sad streams adown a fearful dell. 
The Latmian listen'd, but he heard no more, loio 
Save echo, faint repeating o'er and o'er 
The name of Arethusa. On the verge 
Of that dark gulf he wept, and said ; ' I urge 
Thee, gentle Goddess of my pilgrimage, 
By our eternal hopes, to soothe, to assuage, 
If thou art powerful, these lovers' pains ; 
And make them happy in some happy plains.' 



134 ENDYMION 

He tiirn'd — there was a whelming sound — he 
stept, 
There w^as a cooler light ; and so he kept 
Towards it by a sandy path, and lo ! 1020 

More suddenly than doth a moment go, 
The visions of the earth were gone and fled — 
He saw the giant sea abov,e his head. 



BOOK III 

There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men 

With most prevailing tinsel : who unpen 

Their baaing vanities, to browse away 

The comfortable green and juicy hay 

From human pastures ; or, O torturing fact ! 

Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpack'd 

Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe 

Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not one tinge 

Of sanctuary splendour, not a sight 

Able to face an owl's, they still are dight 10 

By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests. 

And crowns, and turbans. With unladen breasts, 

Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount 

To their spirit's perch, their being's high account. 

Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their 

thrones — 
Amid the fierce intoxicating tones 
Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabour'd drums. 
And sudden cannon. Ah ! how all this hums. 
In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone — 
Like thunder-clouds that spake to Babylon, 20 

And set those old Chaldeans to their tasks. — 
Are then regalities all gilded masks ? 
No, there are throned seats unscalable 
But by a patient wing, a constant spell, 
Or by ethereal things that, unconfined, 
Can make a ladder of the eternal wind, 



i 



BOOK THIRD 135 

And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents 

To watch the abysm-birth of elements. 

Aye, 'bove the withering of old-lipp'd Fate 

A thousand Powers keep religious state, 30 

In water, fiery realm, and airy bourne ; 

And, silent as a consecrated urn, 

Hold spherey sessions for a season due. 

Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few ! 

Have bared their operations to this globe — 

Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe 

Our piece of heaven — whose benevolence 

Shakes hand with our own Ceres ; every sense 

Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude, 

As bees gorge full their cells. And, by the feud 40 

'Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear, 

Eterne Apollo ! that thy Sister fair 

Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest. 

When thy gold breath is misting in the west, 

She unobserved steals unto her throne. 

And there she sits most meek and most alone ; 

As if she had not pomp subservient ; 

As if thine eye, high Poet ! was not bent 

Towards her with the Muses in thine heart ; 

As if the minist'ring stars kept not apart, 50 

Waiting for silver-footed messages. 

O Moon ! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees 

Feel palpitations when thou lookest in : 

O Moon ! old boughs lisp forth a holier din 

The while they feel thine airy fellowship. 

Thou dost bless everywhere, with silver lip 

Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine, 

Couch'd in thy brightness, dream of fields divine : 

Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, 

Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes ; 60 

And yet thy benediction passeth not 

One obscure hiding-place, one little spot 

Where pleasure may be sent : the nested wren 

Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken, 



136 ENDYMION 

And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf 

Takes glimpses of thee ; thou art a relief 

To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps 

Within its pearly house. — The mighty deeps. 

The monstrous sea is thine — the myriad sea ! 

O Moon ! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee, 70 

And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous load. 

Cynthia ! where art thou now ? What far abode 
Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine 
Such utmost beauty ? Alas, thou dost pine 
For one as sorrowful : thy cheek is pale 
For one whose cheek is pale : thou dost bewail 
His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost thou 

sigh? 
Ah ! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye, 
Or what a thing is love ! 'T is She, but lo ! 
How changed, how full of ache, how gone in 

woe ! 80 

She dies at the thinnest cloud ; her loveliness 
Is wan on Neptune's blue : yet there's a stress 
Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees. 
Dancing upon the waves, as if to please 
The curly foam with amorous influence. 
O, not so idle : for down-glancing thence. 
She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about 
O'erwhelming water-courses ; scaring out 
The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and fright- 

'ning 
Their savage eyes with unaccustom'd lightning. 90 
Where will the splendour be content to reach ? 
O love ! how potent hast thou been to teach 
Strange journeyings ! Wherever beauty dwells. 
In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells, 
In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun, 
Thou pointest out the way, and straight 't is won. 
Amid his toil thou gavest Leander breath ; 
Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death ; 



< 



i 



BOOK THIRD ' 137 

Thou madest Pluto bear thin element ; 

And now, O winged Chieftain ! thou hast sent 100 

A moonbeam to the deep, deep water- world, 

To find Endymion. 

On gold sand impearl'd 
With lily shells, and pebbles milky white, 
Poor Cynthia greeted him, and soothed her light 
Against his pallid face : he felt the charm 
To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm 
Of his heart's blood : 't was very sweet ; he stay'd 
His wandering steps, and half-entranced laid 
His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds. 
To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads, no 
Lash'd from the crystal roof by fishes' tails. 
And so he kept, until the rosy veils 
Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand 
Were lifted from the water's breast, and fann'd 
Into sweet air ; and sober' d morning came 
Meekly through billows : — when like taper-flame 
Left sudden by a dallying breath of air, 
He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare 
Along his fated way. 

Far had he roam'd, 
With nothing save the hollow vast, that foam'd 120 
Above, around, and at his feet ; save things 
More dead than Morpheus' imaginings : 
Old rusted anchors, helmets, breastplates large 
Of gone sea- warriors : brazen beaks and targe ; 
Eudders that for a hundred years had lost 
The sway of human hand ; gold vase emboss'd 
With long-forgotten story, and wherein 
No reveller had ever dipp'd a chin 
But those of Saturn's vintage ; mouldering scrolls. 
Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those souls 130 
Who first were on the earth ; and sculptures rude 
In ponderous stone, developing the mood 



138 ENDYMION 

Of ancient Nox ; — then skeletons of man, 

Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan, 

And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw 

Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe 

These secrets struck into him ; and unless 

Dian had chased away that heaviness. 

He might have died : but now, with cheered feel. 

He onward kept ; wooing these thoughts to steal 140 

About the labyrinth in his soul of love. 

' What is there in thee. Moon ! that thou shouldst 
move 
My heart so potently ? When yet a child 
I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smiled. 
Thou seem'dst my sister : hand in hand we went 
From eve to morn across the firmament. 
No apples would I gather from the tree, 
Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously : 
No tumbling water ever spake romance. 
But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance : 
No woods were green enough, no bower divine, 151 
Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine : 
In sowing-time ne'er would I dibble take, • 
Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake ; 
And, in the summer tide of blossoming. 
No one but thee hath heard me blithely sing 
And mesh my dewy flowers all the night. 
No melody was like a passing spright 
If it went not to solemnize thy reign. 
Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain 160 

By thee were fashion'd to the self-same end 
And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend 
With all my ardours ; thou wast the deep glen : 
Thou wast the mountain-top — the sage's pen — 
The poet's harp — the voice of friends — the sun ; 
Thou wast the river — thou wast glory won ; 
Thou wast my clarion's blast — thou wast my 
steed — 



BOOK THIRD 139 

My goblet full of wine — my topmost deed : — 
Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon ! 
O what a wild and harmonized tune 170 

My spirit struck from all the beautiful ! 
On some bright essence could I lean, and lull 
Myself to immortality : I prest 
Nature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest. 
But gentle Orb ! there came a nearer bliss — 
My strange love came — Felicity's abyss ! 
She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away — 
Yet not entirely : no, thy starry sway 
Has been an under- passion to this hour. 
Now I begin to feel thine orby power 180 

Is coming fresh upon me : O be kind, 
Keep back thine influence, and do not blind 
My sovereign vision. — Dearest love, forgive 
That I can think away from thee and live ! — 
Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize 
One thought beyond thine argent luxuries! 
How far beyond.! ' At this a surprised start 
Frosted the springing verdure of his heart ; 
For as he lifted up his eyes to swear 
How his own goddess was past all things fair, 190 
He saw far in the concave green of the sea 
An old man sitting calm and peacefully. 
Upon a weeded rock this old man sat, 
And his white hair was awful, and a mat 
Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin feet ; 
And, ample as the largest winding-sheet, 
A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged bones, 
O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans 
Of ambitious magic : every ocean-form 
Was woven in with black distinctness ; storm, 200 
And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar, 
Quicksand, and whirlpool, and deserted shore 
Were emblem'd in the woof ; with every shape 
That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape and 
cape. 



140 ENDYMION 

The gulphing whale was like a dot in the spell, 

Yet look upon it, and 't would size and swell 

To its huge self ; and the minutest fish 

Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish, 

And show his little eye's anatomy. 

Then there was pictured the regality 210 

Of Neptune ; and the sea-nymphs round his state, 

In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait. 

Beside this old man lay a pearly wand, 

And in his lap a book, the which he conn'd 

So steadfastly, that the new denizen 

Had time to keep him in amazed ken, 

To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe. 

The old man raised his hoary head and saw 
The wilder'd stranger — seeming not to see. 
His features were so lifeless. Suddenly 220 

He woke as from a trance : his snow-white brows 
Went arching up, and like two magic ploughs 
Furrow'd deep wrinkles in his forehead large, 
Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge, 
Till round his wither' d lips had gone a smile. 
Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil 
Had watch'd for years in forlorn hermitage, 
Who had not from mid-life to utmost age 
Eased in one accent his o'erburden'd soul. 
Even to the trees. He rose : he grasp'd his stole. 
With convulsed clenches waving it abroad, 231 

And in a voice of solemn joy, that awed 
Echo into oblivion, he said : — 

' Thou art the man ! Now shall I lay my head 
In peace upon my watery pillow : now 
Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow. 
O Jove ! I shall be young again, be young ! 
O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierced and stung 
With new-born life ! What shall I do ? Where go, 
When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe ? — 240 



BOOK THIRD 141 

I '11 swim to the sirens, and one moment listen 

Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten ; 

Anon upon that giant's arm I '11 be, 

That writhes about the roots of Sicily : 

To northern seas I '11 in a twinkling sail, 

And mount upon the snortings of a whale 

To some black cloud; thence down I'll madly 

sweep 
On forked lightning, to the deepest deep, 
Where through some sucking pool I will be hurl'd 
With rapture to the other side of the world ! 250 

O, I am full of gladness ! Sisters three, 
I bow full-hearted to your old decree ! 
Yes, every god be thank' d, and power benign. 
For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine. 
Thou art the man ! ' Endymion started back 
Dismay'd ; and, like a wretch from whom the rack 
Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony, 
Mutter'd : * What lonely death am I to die 
In this cold region ? Will he let me freeze, 
And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas ? 260 

Or will he touch me with his searing hand, 
And leave a black memorial on the sand ? 
Or tear me piecemeal with a bony saw. 
And keep me as a chosen food to draw 
His magian fish through hated fire and flame ? 
O misery of hell ! resistless, tame, 
Am I to be burnt up ? No, I will shout. 
Until the gods through heaven's blue look out ! — 
O Tartarus ! but some few days agone 
Her soft arms were entwining me, and on 270 

Her voice I hung like fruit among green leaves : 
Her lips were all my own, and — ah, ripe sheaves 
Of happiness ! ye on the stubble droop. 
But never may be garner'd. I must stoop 
My head, and kiss death's foot. Love! love, fare- 
well ! 
Is there no hope from thee ? This horrid spell 



142 ENDYMION 

Would melt at thy sweet breath. — By Dian's hind 

Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind 

I see thy streaming hair ! and now, by Pan, 

I care not for this old mysterious man ! ' 280 

He spake, and walking to that aged form,. 
Look'd high defiance. Lo ! his heart 'gan warm 
With pity, for the gray-hair'd creature wept. 
Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow kept ? 
Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought 
Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human thought, 
Convulsion to a mouth of many years ? 
He had in truth ; and he was ripe for tears. 
The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt 
Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt 290 
About his large dark locks, and faltering spake : 

' Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus' sake ! 
I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel 
A very brother's yearning for thee steal 
Into mine own : for why ? thou openest 
The prison gates that have so long opprest 
My weary watching. Though thou kuow'st it not, 
Thou art commission'd to this fated spot 
For great enfranchisement. O weep no more ! 
I am a friend to love, to loves of yore : 300 

Aye, hadst thou never loved an unknown power, 
I had been grieving at this joyous hour. 
But even now most miserable old, 
I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold 
Gave mighty pulses : in this tottering case 
Grew a new heart, which at this moment plays 
As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid. 
For thou Shalt hear this secret all di splay' d. 
Now as we speed towards our joyous task.' 

So saying, this young soul in age's mask 310 

Went forward with the Carian side by side : 



BOOK THIRD 143 

Resuming quickly thus ; while ocean's tide 
Hung swollen at their backs, and j ewell'd sands 
Took silently their foot- prints. 

' My soul stands 
Now past the midway from mortality, 
And so I can prepare without a sigh 
To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain. 
I was a fisher once, upon this main, 
And my boat danced in every creek and bay ; 
Rough billows were my home by night and day — 
The sea-gulls not more constant ; for I had 321 

No housing from the storm and tempests mad, 
But hollow rocks — and they were palaces 
Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease : 
Long years of misery have told me so. 
Aye, thus it was one thousand years ago. 
One thousand years ! — Is it then possible 
To look so plainly through them ? to dispel 
A thousand years with backward glance sublime ? 
To breathe away as 'twere all scummy slime 330 
From off a crystal pool, to see its deep, 
And one's own image from the bottom peep ? 
Yes : now I am no longer wretched thrall, 
My long captivity and moanings all 
Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum. 
The which I breathe away, and thronging come 
Like things of yesterday my youthful pleasures: 

' I tou€h'd no lute, I sang not, trod no measures : 
I was a lonely youth on desert shores. 
My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous roars, 340 
And craggy isles, and sea-mew's plaintive cry — 
Plaining discrepant between sea and sky. 
Dolphins were still my playmates ; shapes unseen 
Would let me feel their scales of gold and green. 
Nor be my desolation; and, full oft, 
When a dread waterspout had rear'd aloft 



144 ENDYMION 

Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe 

To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and wipe 

My life away like a vast sponge of fate, 

Some friendly monster, pitying my sad state, 

Has dived to its foundations, gulf'd it down, 350 

And left me tossing safely. But the crown j 

Of all my life was utmost quietude : 1 

More did I love to lie in cavern rude, ^ 

Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's voice, 

And if it came at last, hark, and rej oice ! 

There blush'd no summer eve but I would steer 

My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear 

The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery steep. 

Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep : 360 

And never was a day of summer shine, 

But I beheld its birth upon the brine : 

For I would watch all night to see unfold 

Heaven's gates, and ^thon snort his morning gold 

Wide o'er the swelling streams: and constantly 

At brim of day-tide on some grassy lea, 

My nets would be spread out, and I at rest. 

The poor folk of the sea-country I blest 

With daily boon of fish most delicate : 

They knew not whence this bounty, and elate 370 ff 

Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach. I 

' Why was I not contented ? Wherefore reach 
At things which, but for thee, O Latmian 1 
Had been my dreary death ? Fool ! I began 
To feel distemper'd longings : to desire • 
The utmost privilege that ocean's sire 
Could grant in benediction : to be free 
Of all his kingdom. Long in misery 
I wasted, ere in one extremest fit 
I plunged for life or death. To interknit 380 

One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff 
Might seem a work of pain ; so not enough 
Can I admire how crystal- smooth it felt, 



BOOK THIRD 145 

And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt 

Whole days and days in sheer astonishment ; 

Forgetful utterly of self -intent ; 

Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow. 

Then, like a new-fledged bird that flrst doth show 

His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill, 

I tried in fear the pinions of my will. 390 

'T was freedom ! and at once I visited 

The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed. 

No need to tell thee of them, for I see 

That thou hast been a witness — it must be 

For these I know thou canst not feel a drouth, 

By the melancholy corners of that mouth. 

So I will in my story straightway pass 

To more immediate matter. Woe, alas ! 

That love should be my bane ! Ah, Scylla fair ! 

Why did poor Glaucus ever — ever dare 400 

To sue thee to his heart ? Kind stranger-youth ! 

I loved her to the very white of truth, 

And she would not conceive it. Timid thing ! 

She fled m^e swift as sea-bird on the wing. 

Round every isle, and point, and promontory, 

From where large Hercules wound up his story 

Far as Egyptian Nile, My passion grew 

The more, the more I saw her dainty hue 

Gleam delicately through the azure clear: 

Until 'twas too fierce agony to bear ; 410 

And in that agony, across my grief 

It flash'd, that Circe might find some relief — 

Cruel enchantress ! So above the water 

I rear'd my head, and look'd for Phoebus' daughter. 

^gea's isle was wondering at the moon : — 

It seem'd to whirl around me, and a swoon 

Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power. 

' When I awoke, 't was in a twilight bower ; 
Just when the light of morn, with hum of bees. 
Stole through its verdurous matting of fresh trees. 420 



146 ENDYMION 

How sweet, and sweeter ! for I heard a lyre, 
And over it a sighing voice expire. 
It ceased — I caught light footsteps ; and anon 
The fairest face that morn e'er look'd upon 
Push'd through a screen of roses. Starry Jove ! 
With tears, and smiles, and honey- words she wove 
A net whose thraldom was more bliss than all 
The range of flower'd Elysium. Thus did fall 
The dew of her rich speech : " Ah ! art awake ? 

let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's sake ! 430 

1 am so oppress'd with joy ! Why, I have shed 
An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold dead ; 
And now I find thee living, I will pour 

From these devoted eyes their silver store, 

Until exhausted of the latest drop. 

So it will pleasure thee, and force thee stop 

Here, that I too may live : but if beyond 

Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art fond 

Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme ; 

If thou art ripe to taste a long love-dream ; 440 

If smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardour mute, 

Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit, 

O let me pluck it for thee ! " Thus she link'd 

Her charming syllables, till indistinct 

Their music came to my o'er-sweeten'd soul ; 

And then she hover'd over me. and stole 

So near, that if no nearer it had been 

This furrow'd visage thou hadst never seen. 

' Young man of Latmos ! thus particular 
Am I, that thou may'st plainly see how far 450 

This fierce temptation went : and thou may'st not 
Exclaim, How, then, was Scylla quite forgot ? 

* Who could resist ? Who in this universe ? 
She did so breathe ambrosia ; so immerse 
My fioe existence in a golden clime. 
She took me like a child of suckling time, 



i 



BOOK THIRD 147 

And cradled me in roses. Thus condemn'd, 

The current of my former life was stemm'd, 

And to this arbitrary queen of sense 

I bow'd a tranced vassal : nor would thence 460 

Have moved, even though Amphion's harp had 

woo'd 
Me back to Scylla o'er the billows rude. 
For as Apollo each eve doth devise 
A new apparelling for western skies ; 
So every eve, nay, every spendthrift hour 
Shed balmy consciousness within that bower. 
And I was free of haunts umbrageous ; 
Could wander in the mazy forest-house 
Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antler'd deer, 
And birds from coverts innermost and drear 470 

Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow — 
To me new-born delights ! 

' Now let me borrow, 
For moments few, a temperament as stern 
As Pluto's sceptre, that my words not burn 
These uttering lips, while I in calm speech tell 
How specious heaven was changed to real hell. 

* One morn she left me sleeping ; half awake 
I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to slake 
My greedy thirst with nectarous camel- draughts ; 
But she was gone. Whereat the barbed shafts 480 
Of disappointment stuck in me so sore. 
That out I ran and search'd the forest o'er. 
Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom 
Damp awe assail'd me ; for there 'gan to boom 
A sound of moan, an agony of sound, 
Sepulchral from the distance all around. 
Then came a conquering earth-thunder, and rumbled 
That fierce complain to silence : while I stumbled 
Down a precipitous path,_ as if impell'd. 
I came to a dark valley. — Groanings swell'd 490 



148 ENDYMION 

Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew, 

The nearer I approach'd a flame's gavint blue, 

That glared before me through a thorny brake. 

This fire, like the eye of gordian snake, 

Bewitch'd me towards ; and I soon was near 

A sight too fearful for the feel of fear : 

In thicket hid I cursed the haggard scene — 

The banquet of my arms, my arbour queen, 

Seated upon an uptorn forest root ; 

And all around her shapes, wizard and brute, 500 

Laughing, and wailing, grovelling, serpenting, 

Showing tootii, tusk, and venom-bag, and sting ! 

O such deformities ! old Charon's self. 

Should he give up awhile his penny pelf ^ 

And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian, 

It could not be so' f antasied. Fierce, wan, 

And tyrannizing was the lady's look, 

As over them a gnarled staff she shook. 

Ofttimes upon the sudden she laugh'd out. 

And from a basket emptied to the rout 510 

Clusters of grapes, the which they raven'd quick 

And roar'd for more ; with many a hungry lick 

About their shaggy jaws. Avenging, slow, 

Anon she took a branch of mistletoe, 

And emptied on 't a black dull-gurgling phial: 

Groan'd one and all, as if some piercing trial 

Was sharpening for their pitiable bones. 

She lifted up the charm : appealing groans 

From their poor breasts went sueing to her ear 

In vain ; remorseless as an infant's bier 520 

She whisk'd against their eyes the sooty oil. 

Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil, 

Increasing gradual to a tempest rage. 

Shrieks, yells, and groans of torture-pilgrimage ; 

Until their grieved bodies 'gan to bloat 

And puff from the tail's end to stifled throat : 

Then was appalling silence : then a sight 

More wildering than all that hoarse affright ; 



BOOK THIRD 149 

For the whole herd, as by a whh-lwind writhen, 

Went through the dismal air like one huge Python 

Antagonizing Boreas, — and so vauish'd. 531 

Yet there was not a breath of wind : she banish'd 

These phantoms with a nod. Lo ! from the dark 

Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and satyrs stark, 

With dancing and loud revelry, — and went 

Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent. — 

Sighing an elephant appear'd and bow'd 

Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aloud 

In human accent : ' ' Potent goddess ! chief 

Of pains resistless ! make my being brief, 540 

Or let me from this heavy prison fly : 

Or give me to the air, or let me die ! 

I sue not for my happy crown again ; 

I sue not for my phalanx on the plain ; 

I sue not for my lone, my widow'd wife : 

I sue not for my ruddy drops of life, 

My children fair, my lovely girls and boys ! 

I will forget them ; I will pass these j oys ; 

Ask nought so heavenward, so too — too high : 

Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die, 550 

Or be deliver'd from this cumbrous flesh, 

From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh, 

And merely given to the cold bleak air. 

Have mercy. Goddess ! Circe, feel my prayer!" 

' That curst magician's name fell icy numb 
Upon my wild conjecturing : truth had come 
Naked and sabre-like against my heart. 
I saw a fury whetting a death-dart ; 
And my slain spirit, overwrought with fright, 
Fainted away in that dark lair of night. 560 

Think, my deliverer, how desolate 
My waking must have been ! disgust, and hate, 
And terrors manifold divided me 
A spoil amongst them. I prepared to flee 
Into the dungeon core of that wild wood : 



150 ENDYMION 

I fled three days — when lo ! before me stood 

Glaring the angry witch. O Dis, even now, 

A clammy dew is beading on my brow, 

At mere remembering her pale laugh, and curse. 

" Ha! ha! Sir Dainty ! there must be a nurse 570 

Made of rose-leaves and thistle-down, express, 

To cradle thee my sweet, and lull thee : yes, 

I am too flinty -hard for thy nice touch : 

My tenderest squeeze is but a giant's clutch 

So, fairy -thing, it shall have lullabies 

Unheard of yet ; and it shall still its cries 

Upon some breast more lily- feminine. 

Oh, no — it shall not pine, and pine, and pine 

More than one pretty, trifling thousand years ; 

And then 'twere pity, but fate's gentle shears 580 

Cut short its immortality. Sea-flirt ! 

Young dove of the waters ! truly I '11 not hurt 

One hair of thine : see how I weep and sigh, 

That our heart-broken parting is so nigh. 

And must we part ? Ah, yes, it must be so. 

Yet ere thou leavest me in utter woe, 

Let me sob over thee my last adieus. 

And speak a blessing : Mark me ! thou hast thews 

Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race : 

But sucif a love is mine, that here I chase 590 

Eternally away from thee all bloom 

Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb. 

Hence shalt thou quickly to the watery vast ; 

And there, ere many days be overpast, 

Disabled age shall seize thee ; and even then 

Thou shalt not go the way of aged men ; 

But live and wither, cripple and still breathe 

Ten hundred years : which gone, I then bequeath 

Thy fragile bones to unknown burial. 

Adieu, sweet love, adieu ! " — As shot stars fall, 600 

She fled ere I could groan for mercy. Stung 

And poisoned was my spirit : despair sung 

A war-song of defiance 'gainst all hell. 



BOOK THIRD 151 

A hand was at my shoulder to compel 
My sullen steps ; another 'fore my eyes 
Moved on with pointed finger. In this guise 
Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam 
I found me ; by my fresh, my native home. 
Its tempering coolness, to my life akin, 
Came salutary as I waded in ; 610 

And with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave 
Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and drave 
Large froth before me, while yet there remain'd 
Hale strength, nor from my bones all marrow 
drain'd. 

' Young lover, I must weep — such hellish spite 
With dry cheek who can tell ? While thus my 

might 
Proving upon this element, dismay'd, 
Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid ; 
I look'd — 't was Scylla ! Cursed, cursed Circe ! 

vulture- witch, hast never heard of mercy ? 620 
Could not thy harshest vengeance be content, 

But thou must nip this tender innocent 
Because I lov'd her ? — Cold, O cold indeed 
Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed 
The sea-swell took her hair. Dead as she was 

1 clung about her waist, nor ceased to pass 
Fleet as an arrow through unfathom'd brine, 
Until there shone a fabric crystalline, 

Ribb'd and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl. 

Headlong I darted : at one eager swirl 630 

Gain'd its bright portal, enter'd, and behold ! 

'T was vast, and desolate, and icy-cold ; 

And all around — But wherefore this to thee 

Who in few minutes more thyself shalt see ? — 

I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled. 

My fever'd parchings up, my scathing dread 

Met palsy half way : soon these limbs became 

Gaunt, wither'd, sapless, feeble, cramp'd, and lame. 



152 ENDYMION 

• Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space, 
Without one hope, without one faintest trace 640 
Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble 
Of colour'd phantasy : for I fear 't would trouble 
Thy brain to loss of reason : and next tell 
How a restoring chance came down to quell 
One half of the witch in me. 

' On a day, 
Sitting upon a rock above the spray, 
I saw grow up from the horizon's brink 
A gallant vessel : soon she seem'd to sink 
Away from me again, as though her course 
Had been resumed in spite of hindering force — 650 
So vanish'd: and not long, before arose 
Dark clouds, and muttering of winds morose. 
Old ^olus would stifle his mad spfleen, 
But could not ; therefore, all the billows green 
Toss'd up the silver spume against the clouds. 
The tempest came : I saw that vessel's shrouds 
In perilous bustle ; while upon the deck 
Stood trembling creatures. I beheld the wreck ; 
The final gulfing ; the poor struggling souls ; 
I heard their cries amid loud thunder-rolls. 660 

they had all been saved but crazed eld 
Annull'd my vigorous cravings ; and thus quell'd 
And curb'd, think on 't, O Latmian! did I sit 
Writhing with pity, and a cursing fit 

Against that hell-born Circe. The crew had gone 

By one and one, to pale oblivion ; 

And I was gazing on the surges prone, 

With many a scalding tear, and many a groan, 

When at my feet emerged an old man's hand, 

Grasping this scroll, and this same slender wand. 670 

1 knelt with pain — reach" d out my hand — had 

grasp'd 
These treasures — touch'd the knuckles — they un- 
clasp'd — 



I 



i 



BOOK THIRD 153 

I caught a finger ; but the downward weight 
O'erpower'd me — it sank. Then 'gan abate 
The storm, and through chill aguish gloom out- 
burst 
The comfortable sun. I was athirst 
To search the book, and in the warming air 
Parted its dripping leaves with eager care. 
Strange matters did it treat of, and drew on 
My soul page after page, till well nigh won 680 

Into forgetfulness ; when, stupefied, 
I read these words, and read again, and tried 
My eyes against the heavens, and read again. 
O what a load of misery and pain 
Each Atlas-line bore off ! — a shine of hope 
Came gold around me, cheering me to cope 
Strenuous with hellish tyranny. Attend ! 
For thou hast brought their promise to an end.' 

In the wide sea tliere lives a forlorn wretch, 
Doom'd with enfeebled carcase to outstretch 690 

His loath' d existence through ten centuries, 
And then to die alone. Who can devise 
A total opposition ? No one. So 
One million times ocean must ebb and flow. 
And he oppressed. Yet he shall not die, 
These things accomplish' d : — If he utterly 
Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds 
The meanings of all motions, shapes, and sounds ; 
If he explores all forms and substances 
Straight homeward to their symbol-essences ; 700 

He shall not die. Moreover, and in chief 
He must pursue this task of joy and grief 
Most piously ; — all lovers tempest-tost, 
And in the savage overtchelming lost. 
He shall deposit side by side, until 
Time 's creeping shall the dreary space fulfil : 
Which done, and all these labours ripened, 
A youth, by heavenly power loved and led. 



154 ENDYMION 

Shall stmid before Mm ; tchom he shall direct 

How to consummate all. The youth elect 710 

Must do the thing, or both will be destroyed. — 

' Then,' cried the young Endymion, overjoy'd, 
' We are twin brothers in this destiny ! 
Say, I entreat thee, what achievement high 
Is, in this restless world, for me reserved. 
What! if from thee my wandering feet had 

swerved, 
Had we both perish'd ? ' — ' Look ! ' the sage replied, 
' Dost thou not mark a gleaming through the tide, 
Of divers brilliances ? 't is the edifice 
I told thee of, where lovely Scylla lies ; 720 

And where I have enshrined piously 
All lovers, whom fell storms have doom'd to die 
Throughout my bondage.' Thus discoursing, on 
They went till unobscured the porches shone ; 
Which hurryingly they gain'd, and enter'd straight. 
Sure never since king Neptune held his state 
Was seen such wonder underneath the stars. 
Turn to some level plain where haughty Mars 
Has legion'd all his battle ; and behold 
How every soldier, with firm foot, doth hold 730 

His even breast : see, many steeled squares, 
And rigid ranks of iron — whence who dares 
One step ? Imagine further, line by line. 
These warrior thousands on the field supine ; — 
So in that crystal place, in silent rows. 
Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and woes. — 
The stranger from the mountains, breathless, traced 
Such thousands of shut eyes in order placed ; 
Such ranges of white feet, and patient lips 
All ruddy, — for here death no blossom nips, 740 

He mark'd their brows and foreheads ; saw their hair 
Put sleekly on one side with nicest care ; 
And each one's gentle wrists, with reverence, 
Put cross-wise to its' heart. 



BOOK THIRD 155 

* Let us commence,' 
Whisper'd the guide, stuttering with joy, 'even 

now.' 
He spake, and, trembling like an aspen-bough, 
Began to tear his scroll in pieces small. 
Uttering the while some mumblings funeral. 
He tore it into pieces small as snow 
That drifts unf eather'd when bleak northerns blow ; 
And having done it, took his dark blue cloak 751 

And bound it round Endymion : then struck 
His wand against the empty air times nine. — 
' What more there is to do, young man, is thine : 
But first a little patience ; first undo 
This tangled thread, and wind it to a clue. 
Ah, gentle ! 't is as weak as spider's skein ; 
And should st thou break it — What, is it done so 

clean ? 
A power overshadows thee ! Oh, brave! 
The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave. 760 

Here is a shell ; 't is pearly blank to me, 
Nor mark'd with any sign or charactery — 
Canst thou read aught ? O read for pity's sake ! 
Olympus ! we are safe ! Now, Carian, break 
This wand against yon lyre on the pedestal.' 

'T was done : and straight with sudden swell and 
fall 
Sweet music breathed her soul away, and sigh'd 
A lullaby to silence. — ' Youth ! now strew 
These minced leaves on me, and passing through 
Those files of dead, scatter the same around, 770 

And thou wilt see the issue.' — 'Mid the sound 
Of flutes and viols, ravishing his heart, 
Endymion from Glaucus stood apart, 
And scatter'd in his face some fragments light. 
How lightning-swift the change ! a youthful wight 
Smiling beneath a coral diadem. 
Out-sparkling sudden like an upturn'd gem, 



156 ENDYMION 

Appear'd, and, stepping to a beauteous corse, 
Kneel'd down beside it, and with tenderest force 
Press'd its cold hand, and wept, — and Scylla 

sigh'd ! 780 

Endymion, with quick hand, the charm applied — 
The nymph arose : he left them to their joy. 
And onward went upon his high employ. 
Showering those powerful fragments on the dead. 
And, as he pass'd, each lifted up its head. 
As doth a flower at Apollo's touch. 
Death felt it to his inwards : 't was too much : 
Death fell a-weeping in his charnel-house. 
The Latmian persevered along, and thus 
All were reanimated. There arose 790 

A noise of harmony, pulses and throes 
Of gladness in the air — while many, who 
Had died in mutual arms devout and true. 
Sprang to each other madly ; and the rest 
Felt a high certainty of being blest. 
They gazed upon Endymion. Enchantment 
Grew drunken, and would have its head and bent. 
Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers, 
Budded, and swell'd, and, full-blown, shed full 

showers 
Of light, soft, unseen leaves of sounds divine. 800 
The two deliverers tasted a pure wine 
Of happiness, from fairy press oozed out. 
Speechless they eyed each other, and about 
The fair assembly wandered to and fro, 
Distracted with the richest overflow 
Of joy that ever pour'd from heav'n. 

' Away ! ' 

Shouted the new born god ; * Follow, and pay 
Our piety to Neptunus supreme ! ' — 
Then Scylla, blushing sweetly from her dream. 
They led on first, bent to her meek surprise, 810 

Through portal columns of a giant size 



BOOK THIRD 157 

Into the vaulted, boundless emerald. 

Joyous all follow' d, as the leader call'd, 

Down marble steps ; pouring as easily 

As hour-glass sand — and fast, as you might see 

Swallows obeying the south summer's call, 

Or swans upon a gentle waterfall. 

Thus went that beautiful multitude, nor far, 
Ere from among some rocks of glittering spar, 
Just within k^en, they saw descending thick 820 

Another multitude. Whereat more quick 
Moved either host. On a wide sand they met. 
And of those numbers every eye was wet ; 
For each their old love found. A murmuring rose. 
Like what was never heard in all the throes 
Of wind and waters : 't is past human wit 
To tell ; 'tis dizziness to think of it. 

This mighty consummation made, the host 
Moved on for many a league ; and gain'd and lost 
Huge sea-marks ; vanward swelling in array, 830 
And from the rear diminishing away, — 
Till a faint dawn surprised them. Glaucus cried, 
' Behold ! behold, the palace of his pride ! 
God Neptune's palaces.' With noise increased, 
They shoulder'd on towards that brightening east. 
At every onward step proud domes arose 
In prospect, — diamond gleams and golden glows 
Of amber 'gainst their faces levelling. 
Joyous, and many as the leaves in spring. 
Still onward ; still the splendour gradual swell'd. 840 
Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld 
By jasper pillars, letting through their shafts 
A blush of coral. Copious wonder-draughts 
Each gazer drank; and deeper drank more near: 
For what poor mortals fragment up, as mere 
As marble was there lavish, to the vast 
Of one fair palace, that far, far surpass'd. 



158 ENDYMION 

Even for common bulk, those olden three, 
Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh. 

As large, as bright, as colour'd as the bow 850 

Oi Iris, when unfading it doth show 
Beyond a silvery shower, was the arch 
Through which this Paphian army took its march. 
Into the outer courts of Neptune's state : 
Whence could be seen, direct, a golden gate, 
To which the leaders sped ; but not h^f raught 
Ere it burst open swift as fairy thougnt. 
And made those dazzled thousands veil their eyes 
Like callow eagles at the first sunrise. 
Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze 860 

Ripe from hue-golden swoons took all the blaze. 
And then, behold ! large Neptune on his throne 
Of emerald deep : yet not exalt alone ; 
At his right hand stood winged Love, and on 
His left sat smiling Beauty's paragon. 

Far as the mariner on highest mast 
Can see all round upon the calmed vast. 
So wide was Neptune's hall : and as the blue 
Doth vault the waters, so the waters drew 
Their doming curtains, high, magnificent, 870 

Awed from the throne aloof ; — and when storm 

rent 
Disclosed the thunder-gloomings in Jove's air ; 
But soothed as now, flash' d sudden everywhere, 
Noiseless, sub-marine cloudlets, glittering 
Death to a human eye : for there did spring 
From natural west, and east, and south, and north, 
A light as of four sunsets, blazing forth 
A gold-green zenith 'bove the Sea-God's head. 
Of lucid depth the floor, and far outspread 
As breezeless lake, on which the slim canoe 88 

Of feather'd Indian darts about, as through 



1 



BOOK THIRD 159 

The delicatest air : air verily, 
But for the portraiture of clouds and sky : 
This palace floor breath-air, — but for the amaze 
Of deep-seen wonders motionless, — and blaze 
Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes, 
Globing a golden sphere. 

They stood in dreams 
Till Triton blew his horn. The palace rang ; 
The Nereids danced ; the Sirens faintly sang ; 
And the great Sea-King bow'd his dripping head. 
Then Love took wing, and from his pinions shed 891 
On all the multitude a nectarous dew. 
The ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew 
Fair Scylla and her guides to conference ; 
And when they reach'd the throned eminence 
She kiss'd the sea-nymph's cheek, — who sat her 

down 
A-toying with the doves. Then, — ' Mighty crown 
And sceptre of this kingdom ! ' Venus said, 
' Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid : 
Behold ! ' — Two copious tear-drops instant fell 900 
From the God's large eyes ; he smiled delectable. 
And over Glaucus held his blessing hands. — 
' Endymion ! Ah ! still wandering in the bands 
Of love ? Now this is cruel. Since the hour 
I met thee in earth's bosom, all my power 
Have I put forth to serve thee. What, not yet 
Escaped from dull mortality's harsh net ? 
A little patience, youth ! 'twill not be long. 
Or I am skilless quite : an idle tongue, 
A humid eye, and steps luxurious, 910 

Where these are new and strange, are ominous. 
Aye, I have seen these signs in one of heaven, 
When others were all blind ; and were I given 
To utter secrets, haply I might say 
Some pleasant words : — but Love will have his day. 



i6o ENDYMION 

So wait awhile expectant. Pr'ythee soon, 

Even in the passing of thine honey-moon, 

Visit thou my Cytherea : thon wilt find 

Cupid well-natured, my Adonis kind ; 

And pra}^ persuade with thee — Ah, I have done, 

All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son ! ' — 921 

Thus the fair goddess: while Endymion 

Knelt to receive those accents halcyon. 

Meantime a glorious revelry began 
Before the water-monarch. Nectar ran 
In courteous fountains to all cups out-reach'd ; 
And plunder'd vines, teeming exhaustless, pleach'd 
New growth about each shell and pendent lyre ; 
The which, in disentangling for their fire, 
Pull'd down fresh foliage and coverture 930 

For dainty toying. Cupid, empire-sure, 
Flutter'd and laugh'd, and oft-times through the 

throng 
Made a delighted way. Then dance, and song. 
And garlanding, grew wild ; and pleasure reign'd. 
In harmless tendril they each other chain'd, 
And strove who should be smother'd deepest in 
Fresh crush of leaves. 

O 't is a very sin 
For one so weak to venture his poor verse 
In such a place as this. O do not curse, 
High Muses ! let him hurry to the ending. 940 

All suddenly were silent. A soft blending 
Of dulcet instruments came charmingly ; 
And then a hymn. 

' King of the stormy sea ! 
Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor 
Of elements ! Eternally before 
Thee the waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn rock, 



BOOK THIRD i6i 

At thy f ear'd trident shrinking, doth unlock 

Its deep foundations, hissing into foam. 

All mountain-rivers, lost in the wide home 

Of thy capacious bosom, ever flow. 950 

Thou frownest, and old ^olus thy foe 

Skulks to his cavern, 'mid the gruff complaint 

Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds faint 

When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam 

Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright team 

Gulfs in the morning light, and scuds along 

To bring thee nearer to that golden song 

Apollo singeth, while his chariot 

Waits at the doors of heaven. Thou art not 

For scenes like this : an empire stern hast thou ; 960 

And it hath furrow'd that large front : yet now, 

As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit 

To blend and interknit 

Subdued majesty with this glad time. 

O shell-borne King sublime ! 

We lay our hearts before thee evermore — 

We sing, and we adore ! 

* Breathe softly, flutes ; 
Be tender of your strings, ye soothing lutes ; 
Nor be the trumpet heard ! O vain, O vain ; 970 

Not flowers budding in an April rain. 
Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river's flow, — 
No, nor the ^olian twang of Love's own bow, 
Can mingle music fit for the soft ear 
Of goddess Cytherea ! 

Yet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair eyes 
On our soul's sacrifice. 

' Bright-winged Child ! 
TMio has anotlier care when thou hast smiled ? 
Unfortunates on earth, we see at last 980 

All death-shadows, and glooms that overcast 
Our spirits, fann'd away by thy light pinions. 



i62 ENDYMION 

sweetest essence ! sweetest of all minions ! 
God of warm pulses, and dishevell'd hair, 
And panting bosoms bare ! 

Dear unseen light in darkness ! eclipser 

Of light in light ! delicious poisoner ! 

Thy venom'd goblet will we quaff until 

We fill— we fill! 

And by thy Mother's lips ' 990 

Was heard no more 
For clamour, when the golden palace door 
Open'd again, and from without, in shone 
A new magnificence. On oozy throne 
Smooth-moving came Oceanus the old. 
To take a latest glimpse at his sheepfold. 
Before he went into his quiet cave 
To muse for ever — Then a lucid wave, 
Scoop'd from its trembling sisters of mid-sea. 
Afloat, and pillowing up the majesty 
Of Doris, and the ^gean seer, her spouse — 1000 
Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs, 
Theban Amphion leaning on his lute : 
His fingers went across it — All were mute 
To gaze on Amphitrite, queen of pearls, 
And Thetis pearly too. — 

The palace whirls 
Around giddy Endymion ; seeing he 
Was there far strayed from mortality. 
He could not bear it — shut his eyes in vain ; 
Imagination gave a dizzier pain. 
• O I shall die ! sweet Venus, be my stay ! loio 

Where is my lovely mistress ? Wellaway ! 

1 die — I hear her voice — I feel my wing ' — 
At Neptune's feet he sank. A sudden ring ' — 
Of Nereids were about him, in kind strife 

To usher back his spirit into life : 

But still he slept. At last they interwove 



I 



BOOK FOURTH 163 

Their cradling arms, and purposed to convey 
Towards a crystal bower far away. 

Lo ! while slow carried through the pitying 
crowd, 
To his inward senses these words spake aloud ; 1020 
Written in starlight on the dark above : 
' Dearest Endymion ! my entire love ! 
How have I dwelt in fear of fate ; 't is done — 
Immortal bliss for me too hast thou won. 
Arise then ! for the hen-dove shall not hatch 
Her ready eggs, before I'll kissing snatch 
Thee into endless heaven. Awake ! awake ! ' 

The youth at once arose : a placid lake 
Came quiet to his eyes ; and forest green, 
Cooler than all the wonders he had seen, 1030 

LuH'd with its simple song his fluttering breast. 
How happy once again in grassy nest ! ' 



BOOK IV 

Muse of my native land ! loftiest Muse ! 
O first-born on the mountains ! by the hues 
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot : 
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot, 
While yet our England was a wolfish den ; 
Before our forests heard the talk of men ; 
Before the first of Druids was a child : — 
Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild. 
Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude. 
There came an eastern voice of solemn mood : — 1 
Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Nine, 
Apollo's garland : — yet didst thou divine 
Such home-bred glory, that they cried in vain, 
' Come hither, Sister of the Island 1 ' Plain 
Spake fair xlusonia ; and once more she spake 
A higher summons : — still didst thou betake 



i64 ENDYMION 

Thee to thy native hopes. O thou hast won 
A full accomplishment ! The thing is done, 
Which undone, these our latter days had risen 
On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know'st what 
prison 20 

Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets 
Our spirits" wings : despondency besets 
Our pillows ; and the fresh to-morrow morn 
Seems to give forth its light in very scorn 
Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives. 
Long have I said, how happy he who slirives 
To thee ! But then I thought on poets gone, 
And could not pray : — nor can I now — so on 
I move to the end in lowliness of heart. — 

' Ah, woe is me ! that I should fondly part 30 

From my dear native land! Ah, foolish maid! 
Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade 
Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields! 
To one so friendless the clear freshet yields 
A bitter coolness ; the ripe grape is sour : 
Yet I would have, great gods ! but one short hour 
Of native air — let me but die at home.' 

Endymion to heaven's airy dome 
Was offering up a hecatomb of vows, 
When these words reach'd him. Whereupon he 
bows 40 

His head through thorny-green entanglement 
Of underwood, and to the sound is bent, 
Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn. 

' Is no one near to help me ? No fair dawn 
Of life from charitable voice ? No sweet saying 
To set my dull and sadden' d spirit playing ? 
No hand to toy with mine ? No lips so sweet 
That I may worship them ? No eyelids meet 
To twinkle on my bosom ? No one dies 



BOOK FOURTH 165 

Before me, till from these enslaving eyes 50 

Redemption sparkles ! — I am sad and lost. ' 

Thou, Carian lord, hadst better have been tost 
Into a whirlpool. Vanish into air. 
Warm mountaineer ! for canst thou only bear 
A woman's sigh alone and in distress ? 
See not her charms ! Is Phoebe passionless ? 
Phoebe is fairer far — O gaze no more : — 
Yet if thou wilt behold all beauty's store, 
Behold her panting in the forest grass ! 
Do not those curls of glossy jet surpass 60 

For tenderness the arms so idly lain 
Amongst them ? Feelest not a kindred pain, 
To see such lovely eyes in swimming search 
After some warm delight, that seems to perch 
Dovelike in the dim cell lying beyond 
Their upper lids ? — Hist ! 

* O for Hermes' wand. 
To touch this flower into human shape ! 
That woodland Hyacinthus could escape 
From his green prison, and here kneeling down 
Call me his queen, his second life's fair crown ! 70 
Ah me, how I could love ! — My soul doth melt 
For the unhappy youth — Love ! I have felt 
So faint a kindness, such a meek surrender 
To what my own full thoughts had made too tender. 
That but for tears my life had fled away ! 
Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day, 
And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true, 
There is no lightning, no authentic dew 
But in the eye of love : there 's not a sound. 
Melodious howsoever, can confound So 

The heavens and earth in one to such a death 
As doth the voice of love : there 's not a breath 
Will mingle kindly with the meadow air. 
Till it has panted round, and stolen a share 
Of passion from the heart ! ' — 



i66 ENDYMION 

Upon a bough 
He leant, wretched. He surely cannot now 
Thirst for another love : O impious, 
That he can even dream upon it thus ! — 
Thought he, ' Why am I not as are the dead, 
Since to a woe like this I have been led 90 

Through the dark earth, and through the wondrous 

sea ? 
Goddess ! I love thee not the less : from thee 
By Juno's smile I turn not — no, no, no — 
While the great waters are at ebb and flow. — 
I have a triple soul ! O fond pretence — 
For both, for both my love is so immense, 
I feel my heart is cut for them in twain.' 

And so he groan'd, as one by beauty slain. 
The lady's heart beat quick, and he could see 
Her gentle bosom heave tumultuously, 100 

He sprang from his green covert : there she lay. 
Sweet as a musk-rose upon new-made hay ; 
With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyes 
Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries : 
' Fair damsel, pity me ! forgive that I 
Thus violate thy bower's sanctity ! 

pardon me, for I am full of grief — 

Grief born of thee, young angel! fairest thief! 
Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith 

1 was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith no 
Thou art my executioner, and I feel 

Loving and hatred, misery and weal, 

Will in a fcAv short hours be nothing to me, 

And all my story that much passion slew me ; 

Do smile upon the evening of my days ; 

And, for my tortured brain begins to craze, 

Be thou my nurse ; and let me understand 

How dying I shall kiss that lily hand. — 

Dost weep for me ? Then should I be content. 

Scowl on, ye fates 1 until the firmament 120 



BOOK FOURTH 167 

Outblackens Erebus, and the full-cavern'd earth 

Crumbles into itself. By the cloud-girth 

Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst 

To meet oblivion.' — As her heart would burst 

The maiden sobb'd awhile, and then replied : 

' Why must such desolation betide 

As that thou speakest of ? Are not these green 

nooks 
Empty of all misfortune ? Do the brooks 
Utter a gorgon voice ? Does yonder thrush, 
Schooling «its half-fledged little ones to brush 130 
About the dewy forest, whisper tales ? — 
Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold snails 
Will slime the rose to-night. Though if thou wilt, 
Methinks 't would be a guilt — a very guilt — 
Not to companion thee, and sigh away 
The light — the dusk — the dark — till break of 

day!' 
' Dear lady,' said Endymion, ' 't is past : 
I love thee ! and my days can never last. 
That I may pass in patience still speak : 
Let me have music dying, and I seek 140 

No more delight — I bid adieu to all. 
Didst thou not after other climates call, 
And murmur about Indian streams ? ' — Then she, 
Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree. 
For pity sang this roundelay 

* O Sorrow, 

Why dost borrow 
The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips ? — 

To give maiden blushes 

To the white rose bushes ? iso 

Or is 't thy dewy hand the daisy tips ? 

' O Sorrow, 
Why dost borrow 
The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye ? — 



i68 ENDYMION 

To give the glowworm light ? 
Or, on a moonless night, 
To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry ? 

* O Sorrow, 

Why dost borrow 
The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue ? — i6o 

To give at evening pale 

Unto the nightingale, 
That thou mayst listen the cold dews among ? 

' O Sorrow, 

Why dost borrow 
Heart's lightness from the merriment of May ? — 

A lover would not tread 

A cowslip on the head, 
Though he should dance from eve till peep of 
day — 

Nor any drooping flower 170 

Held sacred for thy bower. 
Wherever he may sport himself and play. 

* To Sorrow, 

I bade good morrow. 
And thought to leave her far away behind ; 

But cheerly, cheerly, 

She loves me dearly ; 
She is so constant to me, and so kind ; 

I would deceive her, 

And so leave her, 180 

But ah ! she is so constant and so kind. 

' Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side 
I sat a-weeping : in the whole world wide . 
There was no one to ask me why I wept, — 

And so I kept 
Brimming the water-lily cups with tears 

Cold as my fears. 



BOOK FOURTH 169 

' Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, 

I sat a- weeping : what enamour'd bride. 

Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds, 190 

But hides and shrouds 
Beneath dark palm-trees by a river side ? 

' And as I sat, over the light blue hills 
There came a noise of revellers : the rills 
Into the wide stream came of purple hue — 

'T was Bacchus and his crew ! 
The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills 
From kissing cymbals made a merry din — 

'T was Bacchus and his kin ! 

Like to a moving vintage down they came, 200 

Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame ; 
All madly dancing through the pleasant valley, 

To scare thee. Melancholy ! 
O then, O then, thou wast a simple name ! 
And I forgot thee, as the berried holly 
By shepherds is forgotten, when, in June, 
Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon : — 

I rush'd into the folly ! 

' Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood, 
Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood, 210 

With sidelong laughing ; 
And little rills of crimson wine imbrued 
His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white 

For Venus' pearly bite ; 
And near him rode Silenus on his ass, 
Pelted with flowers as he on did pass 

Tipsily quaflSng. 

' Whence came ye, merry Damsels ! whence came ye ! 
So many, and so many, and such glee ? 
Why have ye left your bowers desolate, 220 

Your lutes, and gentler fate ? 



I70 ENDYMION 

"We follow Bacchus ! Bacchus on the wing, 

A conquering ! 
Bacchus, young Bacchus ! good or ill betide, 
We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide : — 
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 

To our wild minstrelsy ! " 

' Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs ! whence came ye, 
So many, and so many, and such glee ? 
Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left 230 
Your nuts in oak-tree cleft ? — 

"For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree ; 
For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms, 

And cold mushrooms ; 
For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth ; 
Great god of breathless cups and chirping mirth ! — 
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 

To our mad minstrelsy ! " 

' Over wide streams and mountains great we went. 
And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent, 240 

Onward the tiger and the leopard pants, 

With Asian elephants : 
Onward these myriads — with song and dance, 
With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance. 
Web-footed alligators, crocodiles. 
Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files. 
Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil 
Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers' toil : 
With toying oars and silken sails they glide, 

Nor care for wind and tide. 250 

' Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes, 
From rear to van they scour about the plains ; 
A three days' j ourney in a moment done ; 
And always, at the rising of the sun, 



BOOK FOURTH 171 

About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn, 
On spleenful unicorn. 

' I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown 

Before the vine-wreath crown ! 
I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing 

To the silver cymbals' ring ! 260 

I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce 

Old Tartary the fierce ! 
The Kings of Inde their jewel-sceptres vail, 
And from their treasures scatter pearled hail ; 
Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans, 

And all his priesthood moans ; 
Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale, — 
Into these regions came I following him. 
Sick-hearted, weary — so I took a whim 
To stray away into these forests drear 270 

Alone, without a peer : 
And I have told thee all thou mayest hear. 

* Young Stranger ! 

I've been a ranger 
In search of pleasure throughout every clime : 

Alas, 't is not for me ! 

Bewitch'd I sure must be. 
To lose in grieving all my maiden prime. 

' Come then, Sorrow ! 

Sweetest Sorrow ! 280 

Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast ; 

I thought to leave thee 

And deceive thee. 
But now of all the world I love thee best. 

' There is not one, 
No, no, not one 
But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid ; 



172 ENDYMION 

Thou art her mother, 
And her brother, 
Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade.' 290 

O what a sigh she gave in finishing, 
And look, quite dead to every wordly thing ! 
Endymion could not speak, but gazed on her ; 
And listened to the wind that now did stir 
About the crisped oaks full drearily. 
Yet with as sweet a softness as might be 
Remember'd from its velvet summer song. 
At last he said : ' Poor lady, how thus long 
Have I been able to endure that voice ? 
Fair Melody ! kind Siren ! I ' ve no choice ; 300 

I must be thy sad servant evermore : 
I cannot choose but kneel here and adore. 
Alas, I must not think — by Phoebe, no ! 
Let me not think, soft Angel ! shall it be so ? 
Say, beautif ullest, shall I never think ? 
O thou couldst foster me beyond the brink 
Of recollection ! make my watchful care 
Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair ! 
Do gently murder half my soul, and I 
Shall feel the other half so utterly ! — 310 

I'm giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth ; 
O let it blush so ever ! let it soothe 
My madness ! let it mantle rosy-warm 
With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm. — 
This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is ; 
And this is sure thine other sof tling — this 
Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near! 
Wilt fall asleep ! O let me sip that tear ! 
And whisper one sweet word that I may know 319 
This is this world — sweet dewy blossom ! ' — Woe ! 
Woe ! looe to that Endymion ! Where is he ? — 
Even these words went echoing dismally 
Through the wide forest — a most fearful tone, 
Like one repenting in his latest moan ; 



BOOK FOURTH 173 

And while it died away a shade pass'd by, 

As of a thundercloud. When arrows fly 

Through the thick branches, poor ringdoves sleek 

forth 
Their timid necks and tremble ; so these both 
Leant to each other trembling, and sat so 
Waiting for some destruction — when lo ! 330 

Foot-feather'd Mercury appear'd sublime 
Beyond the tall tree tops ; and in less time 
Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down he dropt 
Towards the ground ; but rested not, nor stopt 
One moment from his home : only the sward 
He with his wand light touch'd, and heavenward 
Swifter than sight was gone — even before 
The teeming earth a sudden witness bore 
Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear 
Above the crystal circlings white and clear ; 340 

And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise, 
How they can dive in sight and unseen rise — 
So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet-black, 
Each with large dark blue wings upon his back. 
The youth of Caria placed the lovely dame 
On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame 
The other's fierceness. Through the air they flew. 
High as the eagles. Like two drops of dew 
Exhaled to Phcebus' lips, away they are gone, 
Far from the earth away — unseen, alone, 350 

Among cool clouds and winds, but that the free, 
The buoyant life of song can floating be 
Above their heads, and follow them untired. 
Muse of my native land, am I inspired ? 
This is the giddy air, and I must spread 
Wide pinions to keep here ; nor do I dread 
Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance 
Precipitous : I have beneath my glance 
Those towering horses and their mournful freight. 
Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await 360 

Fearless for power of thought, without thine aid ? — 



174 ENDYMION 

There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade 
From some approaching wonder, and behold 
Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils bold 
Snuff at its faint extreme, and seem to tire, 
Dying to embers from their native fire ! 

There curl'd a purple mist around them ; soon, 
It seem'd as when around the pale new moon 
Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping wil- 
low : 
'T was Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow 
For the first time, since he came nigh dead-born 371 
From the old womb of night, his cave forlorn 
Had he left more forlorn ; for the first time, 
He felt aloof the day and morning's prime — 
Because into his depth Cimmerian 
There came a dream, showing how a young man, 
Ere a lean bat could plump its wintery skin, 
Would at high Jove's empyreal footstool win 
An immortality, and how espouse 
Jove's daughter, and be reckon'd of his house. 380 
Now was he slumbering towards heaven's gate, 
That he might at the threshold one hour wait 
To hear the marriage melodies, and then 
Sink downward to his dusky cave again. 
His litter of smooth semilucent mist, 
Diversely tinged with rose and amethyst. 
Puzzled those eyes that for the centre sought ; 
And scarcely for one moment could be caught 
His sluggish form reposing motionless. 
Those two on winged steeds, with all the stress 390 
Of vision search'd for him, as one would look 
Athwart the sallows of a river nook 
To catch a glance at silver- throated eels, — 
Or from old Skiddaw's top, when fog conceals 
His rugged forehead in a mantle pale. 
With an eye-guess towards some pleasant vale 
Descry a favourite hamlet faint and far. 



BOOK FOURTH 175 

These raven horses, though they foster'd are 
Of earth's splenetic fire, dully drop 399 

Their fuU-vein'd ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop ; 
Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread 
Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead, — 
And on those pinions, level in mid air, 
Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair. 
Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle 
Upon a calm sea drifting : and meanwhile 
The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold ! he walks 
On heaven's pavement ; brotherly he talks 
To divine powers : from his hand full fain 
Juno's proud birds are pecking pearly grain : 410 
He tries the nerve of Phoebus' golden bow, 
And asketh where the golden apples grow : 
Upon his arm he braces Pallas' shield. 
And strives in vain to unsettle and to wield 
A Jovian thunderbolt : arch Hebe brings 
A full-brimm'd goblet, dances lightly, sings 
And tantalizes long ; at last he drinks, 
And lost in pleasure, at her feet he sinks, 
Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand. 
He blows a bugle, — an ethereal band 420 

Are visible above : the Seasons four, — 
Green-kirtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store 
In Autumn's sickle. Winter frosty hoar. 
Join dance with shadowy Hours ; while still the 

blast. 
In swells unmitigated, still doth last 
To sway their floating morris. ' Whose is this ? 
Whose bugle ? ' he inquires : they smile — ' O Dis ! 
Why is this mortal here ? Dost thou not know 
Its mistress' lips ? Not thou ? — 'T is Dian's : lo ! 
She rises crescented ! ' He looks, 't is she, 430 

His very goddess : good-bye earth, and sea, 
And air, and pains, and care, and suffering ; 
Good-bye to all but love ! Then doth he spring 
Towards her, and awakes — and, strange, o'erhead, 



176 ENDYMION 

Of those same fragrant exhalations bred, 
Beheld awake his very dream : the gods 
Stood smiling ; merry Hebe laughs and nods ; 
And Phoebe bends towards him crescented. 

state perplexing ! On the pinion bed, 

Too well awake, he feels the panting side 440 

Of his delicious lady. He who died 
For soaring too audacious in the sun, 
When that same treacherous wax began to run, 
Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion. 
His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne, 
To that fair-shadow'd passion pulsed its way — 
Ah, what perplexity ! Ah, well a day ! 
So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow, 
He could not help but kiss her : then he grew 
Awhile forgetful of all beauty save 450 

Young Phoebe's, golden-hair'd ; and so 'gan crave 
Forgiveness : yet he turn'd once more to look 
At the sweet sleeper, — all his soul was shook, — 
She press'd his hand in slumber ; so once more 
He could not help but kiss her and adore. 
At this the shadow wept, melting away. 
The Latmian started up : ' Bright goddess, stay ! 
Search my most hidden breast! By truth's own 
tongue, 

1 have no daedale heart ; why is it wrung 

To desperation ? Is there nought for me, 460 

Upon the bourne of bliss, but misery ? ' 

These words awoke the stranger of dark tresses : 
Her dawning love-look rapt Endymion blesses 
With 'haviour soft. Sleep yawn'd from underneath, 
* Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more breathe 
This murky phantasm ! thou contented seem'st 
Pillow'd in lovely idleness, nor dream'st 
What horrors may discomfort thee and me. 
Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart-treachery ! — 
Yet did she merely weep — her gentle soul 471 



BOOK FOURTH 177 

Hath no revenge in it : as it is whole 

In tenderness, would I were whole in love ! 

Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above, 

Even when I feel as true as innocence ? 

I do, I do. — What is this soul then ? Whence 

Came it ? It does not seem my own, and I 

Have no self -passion or identity. 

Some fearful end must be : where, where is it ? 

By Nemesis, I see my spirit flit 

Alone about the dark — Forgive me, sweet : 480 

Shall we away ? ' He roused the steeds ; they beat 

Their wings chivalrous into the clear air, 

Leaving old Sleep within his vapoury lair. 

The good-night blush of eve was waning slow, 
And Vesper, risen star, began to throe 
In the dusk heavens silv^y, when they 
Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy. 
Nor did speed hinder converse soft and strange — 
Eternal oaths and vows they interchange, 
In such wise, in such temper, so aloof 490 

Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof, 
So witless of their doom, that verily 
'Tis well nigh past man's search their hearts to 

see — 
Whether they wept, or laugh'd or grieved or toy'd — 
Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow cloy'd. 

Full facing their swift flight, from ebon streak, 
The moon put forth a little diamond peak, 
No bigger than an unobserved star, 
On tiny point of fairy scimetar : 
Bright signal that she only stoop'd to tie 500 

Her silver sandals, ere deliciously 
She bow'd into the heavens her timid head. 
Slowly she rose, as though she would have fled, 
While to his lady meek the Carian turn'd. 
To mark if her dark eyes had yet discern'd 



178 ENDYMION 

This beauty in its birth — Despair ! despair 1 

He saw her body fading gaunt and spare 

In the cold moonshine. Straight he seized her 

wrist ; 
It melted from his grasp ; her hand he kiss'd, 
And, horror ! kiss'd his own — he was alone. 510 

Her steed a little higher soar'd and then 
Dropt hawk- wise to the earth. 

There lies a den, 
Beyond the seeming confines of the space 
Made for the soul to wander in and trace 
Its own existence, of remotest glooms. 
Dark regions are around it, where the tombs 
Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce 
One hour doth linger weeping, for the pierce 
Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart : 
And in these regions many a venom'd dart 520 

At random flies ; they are the proper home 
Of every ill : the man is yet to come 
Who hath not journey'd in this native hell. 
But few have ever felt how calm and well 
Sleep may be had in that deep den of all. 
There anguish does not sting, nor pleasure pall ; 
Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate. 
Yet all is still within and desolate. 
Beset with painful gusts, within ye hear 
No sound so loud as when on curtain'd bier 530 

The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none 
Who strive therefor : on the sudden it is won. 
Just when the sufferer begins to burn, 
Then it is free to him ; and from an urn. 
Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught — 
Young Semele such richness never quaff'd 
In her maternal longing. Happy gloom ! 
Dark Paradise ! where pale becomes the bloom 
Of health by due ; where silence dreariest 
Is most articulate ; where hopes infest ; 540 



BOOK FOURTH 179 

"Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep 
Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep. 
O happy spirit-home ! O wondrous soul ! 
Pregnant with such a den to save the whole 
In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian ! 
For, never since thy griefs and woes began, 
Hast thou felt so content : a grievous feud 
Hath led thee to this Cave of Quietude. 
Aye, his lull'd soul was there, although upborne, 
With dangerous speed : and so he did not mourn 550 
Because he knew not whither he was going. 
So happy was he, not the aerial blowing 
Of trumpets at clear parley from the east 
Could rouse from that fine relish, that high feast. 
They stung the feather'd horse ; with fierce alarm 
He flapp'd towards the sound. Alas, no charm 
Could lift Endymion's head, or he had view'd 
A skyey mask, a pinion'd multitude, — 
And silvery was its passing : voices sweet 
Warbling the while as if to lull and greet 560 

The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled they. 
While past the vision went in bright array. 

'Who, who from Dian's feast would be away ? 
For all the golden bowers of the day 
Are empty left ? Who, who away would be 
From Cynthia's wedding and festivity ? 
Not Hesperus : lo ! upon his silver wings 
He leans away for highest heaven and sings, 
Snapping his lucid fingers merrily ! — 
Ah, Zephyrus ! art here, and Flora too ! 570 

Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew. 
Young playmates of the rose and daffodil. 
Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill 

Your baskets high 
With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines, 
Savory, latter-mint, and columbines, 
Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme ; 



i8o ENDYMION 

Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime, 
All gather'd in the dewy morning : Me 

Away ! fly, fly ! — 580 

Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven, 
Aquarius ! to whom king Jove has given 
Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of feather'd wings. 
Two fanlike fountains, — thine illuminings 

For Dian play : 
Dissolve the frozen purity of air ; 
Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare 
Show cold through watery pinions; make more bright 
The Star-Queen's crescent on her marriage night : 

Haste, haste away ! — 59° 

Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see ! 
And of the Bear has Pollux mastery : 
A third is in the race ! who is the third, 
Speeding away swift as the eagle bird ? 

The ramping Centaur ! 
The Lion's mane 's on end : the Bear how fierce ! 
The Centaur's arrow ready seems to pierce 
Some enemy : far forth his bow is bent 
Into tlie blue of heaven. He '11 be shent. 

Pale unrelentor, 600 

When he shall hear the wedding lutes a-playing. — 
Andromeda ! sweet woman ! why delaying 
So timidly among the stars : come hither ! 
Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow whither 

They all are going. 
Danae's Son, before Jove newly bow'd, 
Has wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud. 
Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthrall : 
Ye shall for ever live and love, for all 

Thy tears are flowing. — 610 

By Daphne's fright, behold Apollo ! ' — 

More 

Endymion heard not : down his steed him bore, 
Prone to the green head of a misty hill. 



BOOK FOURTH i8i 

His first touch of the earth went nigh to kill. 
' Alas ! ' said he, ' were I but always borne 
Through dangerous winds, had but my footsteps 

worn 
A path in hell, for ever would I bless 
Horrors which nourish an uneasiness 
For my own sullen conquering : to him 
Who lives beyond earth's boundary, grief is dim, 620 
Sorrow is but a shadow : now I see 
The grass ; I feel the solid ground — Ah, me ! 
It is thy voice — divinest ! Where ? — who ? who 
Left thee so quiet on this bed of dew ? 
Behold upon this happy earth we are ; 
Let us ay love each other ; let us fare 
On forest-fruits, and never, never go 
Among the abodes of mortals here below, 
Or be by phantoms duped. O destiny ! 
Into a labyrinth now my soul would fly, 630 

But with thy beauty will I deaden it. 
Where didst thou melt to ? By thee will I sit 
For ever : let our fate stop here — a kid 
I on this spot will offer : Pan will bid 
Us live in peace, in love and peace among 
His forest wildernesses. I have clung 
To nothing, loved a nothing, nothing seen 
Or felt but a great dream ! Oh, I have been 
Presumptuous against love, against the sky. 
Against all elements, against the tie 640 

Of mortals each to each, against the blooms 
Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs 
Of heroes gone ! Against his proper glory 
Has my own soul conspired : so my story 
Will I to children utter, and repent. 
There never lived a mortal man, who bent 
His appetite beyond his natural sphere. 
But starved and died. My sweetest Indian, here, 
Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast 



i82 ENDYMION 

My life from too thin breathing : gone and past 650 

Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, farewell ! 

And air of visions, and the monstrous swell 

Of visionary seas ! No, never more 

Shall airy voices cheat me to the shore 

Of tangled wonder, breathless and aghast. 

Adieu, my daintiest Dream ! although so vast 

My love is still for thee. The hour may come 

When we shall meet in pure elysium. 

On earth I may not love thee ; and therefore 

Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store 660 

All through the teeming year : so thou wilt shine 

On me, and on this damsel fair of mine. 

And bless our simple lives. My Indian bliss ! 

My river-lily bud ! one human kiss ! 

One sigh of real breath — one gentle squeeze, 

Warm as a dove's nest among summer trees. 

And warm with dew at ooze from living blood ! 

Whither didst melt ? Ah, what of that ! — all good 

We '11 talk about — no more of dreaming. — Now, 

Where shall our dwelling be ? Under the brow 670 

Of some steep mossy hill, where ivy dun 

Would hide us up, although spring leaves were 

none ; 
And where dark yew trees, as we rustle through, 
Will drop their scarlet berry cups of dew ? 
O thou wouldst joy to live in such a place ; 
Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to grace 
Those gentle limbs on mossy bed reclined : 
For by one step the blue sky shouldst thou find. 
And by another, in deep dell below, 
See, through the trees, a little river go 
All in its mid-day gold and glimmering. 
Honey from out the gnarled hive I '11 bring. 
And apples, wan with sweetness, gather thee, — 
Cresses that grow wiieie no man may them see, 
And sorrel untorn by the dew-claw'd stag : 



BOOK FOURTH 183 

Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag, 

That thou mayst always know whither I roam, 

When it shall please thee in our quiet home 

To listen and think of love. Still let me speak ; 

Still let me dive into the joy I seek, — 690 

For yet the past doth prison me. The rill, 

Thou haply mayst delight in, will I fill 

With fairy fishes from the mountain tarn, 

And thou shalt feed them from the squirrel's barn. 

Its bottom will I strew with amber shells, 

And pebbles blue from deep enchanted wells. 

Its sides I'll plant with dew-sweet eglantine. 

And honeysuckles full of clear bee- wine. 

I will entice this crystal rill to trace 

Love's silver name upon the meadow's face. 700 

I '11 kneel to Vesta, for a flame of fire ; 

And to god Phoebus, for a golden lyre ; 

To Empress Dian, for a hunting-spear ; 

To Vesper, for a taper silver-clear, 

That I may see thy beauty through the night ; 

To Flora, and a nightingale shall light 

Tame on thy finger ; to the River-gods, 

And they shall bring thee taper fishing-rods 

Of gold, and lines of Naiads' long bright tress. 

Heaven shield thee for thine utter loveliness ! 710 

Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be 

'Fore which I '11 bend, bending, dear love, to thee : 

Those lips shall be my Delphos, and shall speak 

Laws to my footsteps, colour to my cheek. 

Trembling or steadfastness to this same voice, 

And of three sweetest pleasurings the choice : 

And that affectionate light, those diamond things, 

Those eyes, those passions, those supreme pearl 

springs, 
Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to pleasure. 
Say, is not bliss within our perfect seizure ? 720 

O that I could not doubt ! ' 



l84 ENDYMION 

The mountaineer 
Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to clear 
His brier'd path to some tranquillity. 
It gave bright gladness to his lady's eye, 
And yet the tears she wept were tears of sorrow ; 
Answering thus, just as the golden morrow 
Beam'd upward from the valleys of the east : 
' O that the flutter of his heart had ceased, 
Or the sweet name of love had pass'd away. 
Young feather'd tyrant ! by a swift decay 730 

Wilt thou devote this body to the earth : 
And I do think that at my very birth 
I lisp'd thy blooming titles inwardly ; 
For at the first, first dawn and thought of thee, 
With uplift hands I blest the stars of heaven. 
Art thou not cruel ? Ever have I striven 
To think thee kind, but ah, it will not do ! 
When yet a child, I heard that kisses drew 
Favour from thee, and so I gave and gave 
To the void air, bidding them find out love : 740 

But when I came to feel how far above 
All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood. 
All earthly pleasure, all imagined good. 
Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss, — 
Even then, that moment, at the thought of this, 
Fainting I fell into a bed of flowers. 
And languish'd there three days. Ye milder powers, 
Am I not cruelly wrong'd ? Believe, believe 
Me, dear Endymion, were I to weave 
With my own fancies garlands of sweet life, 750 

Thou shouldst be one of all. Ah, bitter strife ! 
I may not be thy love : I am forbidden — 
Indeed I am — thwarted, affrighted, chidden. 
By things I tremble at, and gorgon wrath. 
Twice hast thou ask'd whither I went: henceforth 
Ask me no more ! I may not utter it. 
Nor may I be thy love. We might commit 
Ourselves at once to vengeance ; we might die ; 



BOOK FOURTH 185 

We might embrace and die : voluptuous thought ! 
Enlarge not to my hunger, or I 'm caught 760 

In trammels of perverse deliciousness. 
No, no, that shall not be : thee will I bless, 
And bid a long adieu,' 

The Carian 
No word return'd : both lovelorn, silent, wan, 
Into the valleys green together went. 
Far wandering, they were perforce content 
To sit beneath a fair lone beechen tree ; 
Nor at each other gazed, but heavily 
,Pored on its hazel cirque of shedded leaves. 

Endymion ! unhappy ! it nigh grieves 770 

Me to behold thee thus in last extreme : 
Enskied ere this, but truly that I deem 
Truth the best music in a first-born song. 
Thy lute- voiced brother will I sing ere long. 
And thou shalt aid — hast thou not aided me ? 
Yes, moonlight Emperor ! felicity 
Has been thy meed for many thousand years ; 
Yet often have I, on the brink of tears. 
Mourn' d as if yet thou wert a forester ; — 
Forgetting the old tale. 

He did not stir 780 

His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small pulse 
Of j oy he might have felt. The spirit culls 
Unladed amaranth, when wild it strays 
Through the old garden-ground of boyish days. 
A little onward ran the very stream 
By which he took his first soft poppy dream ; 
And on the very bark 'gainst which he leant 
A crescent he had carved, and round it spent 
His skill in little stars. The teeming tree 
Had swollen and green'd the pious charactery. 79c 
But not ta'en out. Why, there was not a slope 



i86 ENDYMION 

Up which he had not fear'd the antelope ; 
And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade 
He had not with his tamed leopards play'd ; 
Nor could an arrow light, or javelin, 
Fly in the air where his had never been — 
And yet he knew it not. 

O treachery ! 
Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye 
With all his sorrowing ? He sees her not. 
But who so stares on him ? His sister sure ! 800 

Peona of the woods ! — Can she endure — 
Impossible — how dearly they embrace I 
His lady smiles ; delight is in her face ; 
It is no treachery. 

' Dear brother mine ! 
Endymion, weep not so ! Why shouldst thou pine 
When all great Latmos so exalt will be ? 
Thank the great gods, and look not bitterly ; 
And speak not one pale word, and sigh no more. 
Sure I will not believe thou hast such store 
Of grief, to last thee to my kiss again. 810 

Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain, 
Come hand in hand with one so beautiful. 
Be happy both of you ! for I will pull 
The flowers of autumn for your coronals. 
Pan's holy priest for young Endymion calls ; 
And when he is restored, thou, fairest dame, 
Shalt be our queen. Now, is it not a shame 
To see ye thus, — not very, very sad ? 
Perhaps ye are too happy to be glad : 
O feel as if it were a common day ; 820 

Free- voiced as one who never was away. 
No tongue shall ask. Whence come ye ? but ye shall 
Be gods of your own rest imperial. 
Not even I, for one whole month, will pry 
Into the hours that have pass'd us by. 



4 

I 



BOOK FOURTH i87 

Since in my arbour I did sing to thee. 

O Hermes ! on this very night will be 

A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light ; 

For the soothsayers old saw yesternight 

Good visions in the air, — whence will befall, 830 

As say these sages, health perpetual 

To shepherds and their flocks ; and furthermore, 

In Dian's face they read the gentle lore : 

Therefore for her these vesper-carols are. 

Our friends will all be there from nigh and far. 

Many upon thy death have ditties made ; 

And many, even now, their foreheads shade 

With cypress, on a day of sacrifice. 

New singing for our maids shalt thou devise. 

And pluck the sorrow from our huntsmen's brows. 

Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse 841 

This wayward brother to his rightful joys! 

His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst poise 

His fate most goddess-like. Help me, I pray, 

To lure — Endymion, dear brother, say 

What ails thee ? ' He could bear no more, and so 

Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow. 

And twang'd it inwardly, and calmly said : 

' I would have thee my only friend, sweet maid ! 

My only visitor ! not ignorant though, 850 

That those deceptions which for pleasure go 

'Mong men, are pleasures real as real may be ; 

But there are higher ones I may not see. 

If impiously an earthly realm I take. 

Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake 

Night after night, and day by day, until 

Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill. 

Let it content thee. Sister, seeing me 

More happy than betides mortality. 

A hermit young, I '11 live in mossy cave, 860 

Where thou alone shalt come to me, and lave 

Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell. 

Through me the shepherd realm shall prosper well ; 



i88 ENDYMION 

For to thy tongue will I all health confide. 

And, for my sake, let this young maid abide 

With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone, 

Peona, mayst return to me. I own 

This may sound strangely : but when, dearest girl, 

Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl 

Will trespass down those cheeks. Companion fair ! 

Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share 871 

This sister's love with me ? ' Like one resign'd 

And bent by circumstance, and thereby blind 

In self-commitment, thus that meek unknown : 

' Aye, but a buzzing by my ears has flown, 

Of jubilee to Dian: — truth I heard ! 

Well then, I see there is no little bird, 

Tender soever, but is Jove's own care. 

Long have I sought for rest, and, unaware, 

Behold I find it ! so exalted too ! 880 

So after my own heart ! I knew, I knew 

There was a place untenanted in it ; 

In that same void white Chastity shall sit, 

And monitor me nightly to lone slumber. 

With sanest lips I vow me to the number 

Of Dian's sisterhood ; and, kind lady, 

With thy good help, this very night shall see 

My future days to her fane consecrate.' 

As feels a dreamer what doth most create 
His own particular fright, so these three felt : 890 
Or like one who, in after ages, knelt 
To Lucifer or Baal, when he 'd pine 
After a little sleep : or when in mine 
Far under-ground, a sleeper meets his friends 
Who know him not. Each diligently bends 
Towards common thoughts and things for very 

fear ; 
Striving their ghastly malady to cheer, 
By thinking it a thing of yes and no, 
That housewives talk of. But the spirit-blow 



BOOK FOURTH 189 

Was struck, and all were dreamers. At tlie last 900 

Endymion said : ' Are not our fates all cast ? 

Why stand we here ? Adieu, ye tender pair ! 

Adieu ! ' Whereat those maidens, with wild stare, 

Walk'd dizzily away. Pained and hot 

His eyes went after them, until they got 

Near to a cypress grove, whose deadly maw, 

In one swift moment, would what then he saw 

Engulf for ever. ' Stay,' he cried, 'ah, stay ! 

Turn, damsels ! hist ! one word I have to say : 

Sweet Indian, I would see thee once again. 910 

It is a thing I dote on : so I 'd fain, 

Peona, ye should hand in hand repair, 

Into those holy groves that silent are 

Behind great Dian's temple. I '11 be yon. 

At Vesper's earliest twinkle — they are gone — 

But once, once, once again — ' At this he press'd 

His hands against his face, and then did rest 

His head upon a mossy hillock green, 

And so remain'd as he a corpse had been 

All the long day ; save when he scantly lifted 920 

His eyes abroad, to see how shadows shifted 

With the slow move of time, — sluggish and weary 

Until the poplar tops, in journey dreary, 

Had reach'd the river's brim. Then up he rose, 

And, slowly as that very river flows, 

Walk'd towards the temple grove with this lament ; 

' Why such a golden eve ? The breeze is sent 

Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall 

Before the serene father of them all 

Bows down his summer head below the west. 930 

Now am I of breath, speech, and speed possest, 

But at the setting I must bid adieu 

To her for the last time. Night will strew 

On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves, 

And with them shall I die ; nor much it grieves 

To die, when summer dies on the cold sward. 

Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord 



190 



ENDYMION 



Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies. 

Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbour-roses ; 

My kingdom's at its death, and just it is 940 

That I should die with it : so in all this 

We miscall grief, bale, sorrow, heart-break, woe, 

Where is there to plain of ? By Titan's foe 

I am but rightly served.' So saying, he 

Tripp'd lightly on, in sort of deathful glee ; 

Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun, 

As though they jests had been : nor had he done 

His laugh at nature's holy countenance, 

Until that grove appear'd, as if perchance, 

And then his tongue with sober seemlihed 950 

Gave utterance as he enter'd : ' Ha ! ' I said, 

' King of the butterflies ; but by this gloom, 

And by old Rhadamanthus' tongue af doom. 

This dusk religion, pomp of solitude. 

And the Promethean clay by thief endued, 

By old Saturnus' forelock, by his head 

Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed 

Myself to things of light from infancy ; 

And thus to be cast out, thus lorn to die, 

Is sure enough to make a mortal man 960 

Grow impious.' So he inwardly began 

On things for which no wording can be found ; 

Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown'd 

Beyond the reach of music : for the choir 

Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough brier 

Nor muffling thicket interposed to dull 

The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full. 

Through the dark pillars of those sylvan aisles. 

He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles. 

Wan as primroses gather'd at midnight 970 

By chilly-finger'd spring. ' Unhappy wight ! 

Endymion ! ' said Peona, ' we are here ! 

What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier ? 

Then he embraced her, and his lady's hand 

Press'd, saying : ' Sister, I would have command. 



BOOK FOURTH 191 

If it were heaven's will, on our sad fate.' 

At which that dark-eyed stranger stood elate 

And said, in a new voice, but sweet as love, 

To Endymion's amaze : ' By Cupid's dove, 

And so thou slialt ! and by the lily truth 980 

Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved youth ! ' 

And as she spake, into her face there came 

Light, as reflected from a silver flame : 

Her long black hair swell'd ampler, in display 

Full golden ; in her eyes a brighter day 

Dawn'd blue, and full of love. Aye, he beheld 

Phoebe, his passion ! joyous she upheld 

Her lucid bow, continuing thus : "Drear, drear 

Has our delaying been ; but foolish fear 

Withheld me first ; and then decrees of fate ; 990 

And then 't was fit that from this mortal state 

Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlook'd-for 

change 
Be spiritualized. Peona, we shall range 
These forests, and to thee they safe shall be 
As was thy cradle ; hither shalt thou flee 
To meet us many a time.' Next Cynthia bright 
Peona kiss'd, and bless'd with fair good night : 
Her brother kiss'd her too, and knelt adown 
Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon. 
She gave her fair hands to him, and behold, 1000 
Before three swiftest kisses he had told, 
They vanish'd far away ! — Peona went 
Home through the gloomy wood in wonderment. 



192 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 

A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO 



Faik Isabel, poor simple Isabel ! 

Lorenzo, a young palmer in love's eye ! 
They could not in the self-same mansion dwell 

Without some stir of heart, some malady ; 
They could not sit at meals but feel how well 

It soothed each to be the other by ; 
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep 
But to each other dream, and nightly weep. 



With every morn their love grew tenderer, 
With every eve deeper and tenderer still ; 

He might not in house, field, or garden stir, 
But her full shape would all his seeing fill ; 

And his continual voice was pleasanter 
To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill ; 

Her lute-string gave an echo of his name. 

She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same. 



He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch, 
Before the door had given her to his eyes ; 

And from her chamber- window he would catch 
Her beauty farther than the falcon spies ; 

And constant as her vespers would he watch, 
Because her face was turn'd to the same skies 



ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 193 

And with sick longing all the night outwear, 
To hear her morning-step upon the stair. 



A whole long month of May in this sad plight 
Made their cheeks paler by the break of June 

* To-morrow will I bow to my delight, 

To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon.' — 

* O may I never see another night, 

Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's tune.' - 
So spake they to their pillows ; but, alas, 
Honeyless days and days did he let pass ; 

V 

Until sweet Isabella's untouch'd cheek 
Fell sick within the rose's just domain, 

Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth seek 
By every lull to cool her infant's pain : 

' How ill she is ! ' said he, ' I may not speak, 
And yet I will, and tell my love all plain : 

If looks, speak love-laws, I will drink her tears, 

And at the least 't will startle off her cares. 



So said he one fair morning, and all day 

His heart beat awfully against his side ; 
And to his heart he inwardly did pray 

For power to speak ; but still the ruddy tide 
Stifled his voice, and pulsed resolve away — 
Fever'd his high conceit of such a bride, 
Yet brought him to the meekness of a child : 
Alas ! when passion is both meek and wild ! 



So once more he had waked and anguished 
A dreary night of love and misery, 

If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed 
To every symbol on his forehead high : 



194 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

She saw it waxing very pale and dead, 

And straight all flush'd ; so, lisped tenderly, 
* Lorenzo ! ' — here she ceased her timid quest, 
But in her tone and look he read the rest. 

VIII 

' O Isabella, I can half perceive 
That I may speak my grief into thine ear ; 

If thou didst ever anything believe. 
Believe how I love thee, believe how near 

My soul is to its doom : I would not grieve 
Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear 

Thine eyes by gazing ; but I cannot live 

Another night, and not my passion shrive. 



' Love ! thou art leading me from wintry cold. 
Lady ! thou leadest me to summer clime, 

And I must taste the blossoms that unfold 

In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time. 

So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold. 
And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme : 

Great bliss was with them, and great happiness 

Grew, like a lusty flower in June's caress. 



Parting they seem'd to tread upon the air, 
Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart 

Only to meet again more close, and share 
The inward fragrance of each other's heart. 

She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair 
Sang, of delicious love and honey'd dart ; 

He with light steps went up a western hill, 

And bade the sun farewell, and joy'd his fill. 

XI 

All close they met again, before the dusk 
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil. 



ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 195 

All close they met, all eves, before the dusk 
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil. 

Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk, 
Unknown of any, free from whispering tale. 

Ah ! better had it been forever so, 

Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe. 



Were they unhappy then ? — It cannot be — 
Too many tears for lovers have been shed, 

Too many sighs give we to them in fee, 
Too much of pity after they are dead. 

Too many doleful stories do we see. 
Whose matter in bright gold were best be read ; 

Except in such a page where Theseus' spouse 

Over the pathless waves towards him bows. 



But, for the general award of love, 
The little sweet doth kill much bitterness ; 

Though Dido silent is in under- grove, 
And Isabella's was a great distress. 

Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove 
Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the less — 

Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers, 

Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers. 



With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt, 
Enriched from ancestral merchandise. 

And for them many a weary hand did swelt 
In torched mines and noisy factories, 

And many once proud-quiver'd loins did melt 

In blood from stinging whip ; — with hollow eyes 

Many all day in dazzling river stood, 

To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood. 



[96 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



For them the Ceylon diver held his breath, 
And went all naked to the hungry shark ; 

For them his ears gush'd blood ; for them in death 
The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark 

Lay full of darts ; for them alone did seethe 
A thousand men in trovibles wide and dark : 

Half -ignorant, they turu'd an easy wheel, 

That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel. 



Why were they proud ? Because their marble founts 
Gush'd with more pride than do a wretch's 
tears ? — 

Why were they proud ? Because fair orange-mounts 
Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs ? — 

Why were they proud ? Because red-lined accounts 
Were richer than the songs of Grecian years ? — 

Why were they proud ? again we ask aloud, 

Why in the name of Glory were they proud ? 

XVII 

Yet were these Florentines as self -retired 
In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, 

As two close Hebrews in that land inspired, 
Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies ; 

The hawks of ship-mast forests — the untired 
And pannier'd mules for ducats and old lies — 

Quick cat's-paws on the generous stray-away, — 

Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay. 

XVIII 

How was it these same ledger-men could spy 

Fair Isabella in her downy nest ? 
How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye 

A straying from his toil ? Hot Egypt's pest 
Into their vision covetous and sly ! 

How could these money-bags see east and west ? — 



i 



ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 197 

Yet so tliey did — and every dealer fair 
Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare. 



O eloquent and famed Boccaccio ! 

Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon, 
And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow, 

And of thy roses amorous of the moon, 
And of thy lilies, that do paler grow 

Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's tune, 
For venturing syllables that ill beseem 
The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme. 



Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale 
Shall move on soberly, as it is meet ; 

There is no other crime, no mad assail 
To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet : 

But it is done — succeed the verse or fail — 
To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet ; 

To stead thee as a verse in English tongue, 

An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. 



These brethren having found by many signs 
What love Lorenzo for their sister had. 

And how she loved him too, each unconfines 
His bitter thoughts to other, well-nigh mad 

That he, the servant of their trade designs. 
Should in their sister's love be blithe and glad, 

"When 'twas their plan to coax her by degrees 

To some high noble and his olive-trees. 

XXII 

And many a jealous conference had they, 
And many times they bit their lips alone, 

Before they fix'd upon a surest way 
To make the youngster for his crime atone ; 



198 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

And at the last, these men of cruel clay- 
Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone ; 
For they resolved in some forest dim 
To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him. 

XXIII 

So on a pleasant morning, as he leant 

Into the sunrise, o'er the balustrade 
Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent 

Their footing through the dews ; and to him said, 
' You seem there in the quiet of content, 

Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade 
Calm speculation ; but if you are wise, 
Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies. 



* To-day we purpose, aye, this hour we mount 
To spur three leagues towards the Apennine; 

Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count 
His dewy rosary on the eglantine.' 

Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, 
Bow'd a fair greeting to these serpents' whine ; 

And went in haste, to get in readiness. 

With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman's dress. 



And as he to the court-yard pass'd along, 
Each third step did he pause, and listen'd oft 

If he could hear his lady's matin-song, 
Or the light whisper of her footstep soft ; 

And as he thus over his passion hung. 
He heard a laugh full musical aloft ; 

When, looking up, he saw her features bright 

Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight. 

XXVI 

' Love, Isabel ! ' said he, ' I was in pain 
Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow : 






ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 199 

Ah ! what if I should lose thee, when so fain 

I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow 
Of a poor three hours' absence ? but we '11 gain 

Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow. 
Good bye ! I '11 soon be back.' — ' Good bye ! ' said 

she: — 
And as he went she chanted merrily. 

XXVII 

So the two brothers and their murder'd man 
Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's stream 

Gurgles through straighten'd banks, and still doth fan 
Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream 

Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan 
The brothers' faces in the ford did seem, 

Lorenzo's flush with love. — They pass'd the water 

Into a forest quiet for the slaughter. 

XXVIII 

There was Lorenzo slain and buried in, 
There in that forest did his great love cease ; 

Ah ! when a soul doth thus its freedom win, 
It aches in loneliness — is ill at peace 

As the break-covert bloodhounds of such sin : 
They dipp'd their swords in the water, and did 
tease 

Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur, 

Each richer by his being a murderer. 



They told their sister how, with sudden speed, 
Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign lands, 

Because of some great urgency and need 
In their affairs, requiring trusty hands. 

Poor Girl ! put on thy stifling widow's weed, 
And 'scape at once from Hope's accursed bands : 

To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, 

And the next day will be a day of sorrow. 



200 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



She weeps alone for pleasures not to be ; 

Sorely she wept until the night came on, 
And then, instead of love, O misery 1 

She brooded o'er the luxury alone : 
His image in the dusk she seem'd to see, 

And to the silence made a gentle moan. 
Spreading her perfect arms upon the air, 
And on her couch low murmuring, ' Where ? O 
where ? ' 



But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long 
Its fiery vigil in her single breast ; 

She fretted for the golden hour, and hung 
Upon the time with feverish unrest — 

Not long — for soon into her heart a throng 
Of higher occupants, a richer zest. 

Came tragic ; passion not to be subdued, 

And sorrow for her love in travels rude. 

XXXII 

In the mid days of autumn, on their eves 
The breath of Winter comes from far away, 

And the sick west continually bereaves 
Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay 

Of death among the bushes and the leaves, 
To make all bare before he dares to stray 

From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel 

By gradual decay from beauty fell, 



Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes 
She ask'd her brothers, with an eye all pale. 

Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes 
Could keep him off so long ? They spake a 
tale 



ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 201 

Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes 

Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom's vale ; 
And every night in dreams they groan'd aloud, 
To see their sister in her snowy shroud. 



And she had died in drowsy ignorance. 
But for a thing more deadly dark than all ; 

It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance, 
Which saves a sick man from the feather'd pall 

For some few gasping moments ; like a lance, 
Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall 

With cruel pierce, and bringing him again 

Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain. 



It was a vision. — In the drowsy gloom. 
The dull of midnight, at her couch's foot 

Lorenzo stood, and wept : the forest tomb 
Had marr'd his glossy hair which once could shoot 

Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom 
Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute 

From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears 

Had made a miry channel for his tears. 



Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake 
For there was striving, in its piteous tongue, 

To speak as when on earth it was awake, 
And Isabella on its music hung : 

Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake, 
As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung ; 

And through it moan'd a ghostly undersong, 

Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars among. 

xxxvii 

Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright 
With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof 



202 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

From the poor girl by magic of their light, 
The while it did unthread the horrid woof 

Of the late darken'd time, — the murderous spite 
Of pride and avarice, — the dark pine roof 

In the forest, — and the sodden turfed dell, 

Where, without any word, from stabs he fell. 



Saying moreover, ' Isabel, my sweet ! 

Red whortleberries droop above my head, 
And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet ; 

Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed 
Their leaves and prickly nuts ; a sheepf old bleat 

Comes from beyond the river to my bed : 
Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom, 
And it shall comfort me within the tomb. 



' I am a shadow now, alas ! alas ! 

Upon the skirts of human nature dwelling 
Alone : I chant alone the holy mass, 

While little sounds of life are round me knelling. 
And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass, 

And many a chapel bell the hour is telling, 
Paining me through : those sounds grow strange to 

me. 
And thou art distant in Humanity. 

XL 

* I know what was, I feel full well what is. 
And I should rage, if spirits could go mad ; 

Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss, 
That paleness warms my grave, as though I 
had 

A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss 
To be my spouse : thy paleness makes me glad ; 

Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel 

A greater love through all my essence steal.' 



ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 203 



The Spirit mourn'd ' Adieu ! ' — dissolved, and left 
The atom darkness in a slow turmoil ; 

As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft, 
Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil, 

We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, 

And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil : 

It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache, 

And in the dawn she started up awake. 

XLII 

' Ha ! ha ! ' said she, ' I knew not this'hard life, 
I thought the worst was simple misery ; 

I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife 
Portion'd us — happy days, or else to die ; 

But there is crime — a brother's bloody knife ! 
Sweet Spirit, thou hast school'd my infancy : 

I '11 visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes, 

And greet thee morn and even in the skies.' 



"When the full morning came, she had devised 
How she might secret to the forest hie ; 

How she might find the clay, so dearly prized, 
And sing to it one latest lullaby ; 

How her short absence might be unsurmised. 
While she the inmost of the dream would try. 

Resolved, she took with her an aged nurse, 

And went into that dismal forest-hearse. 



See, as they creep along the river side, ■ 
How she doth whisper to that aged Dame, 

And, after looking round the champaign wide. 
Shows her a knife. — ' What feverous hectic flame 

Burns in thee, child ? — what good can thee betide. 
That thou shouldst smile again ? ' — The evening 



204 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed ; 
The flint was there, the berries at his head. 



Who hath not loiter'd in a green churchyard, 
And let his spirit, like a demon-mole, 

Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard. 
To see skull, coflSn'd bones, and funeral stole ; 

Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd, 
And filling it once more with human soul ? 

Ah ! this is holiday to what was felt 

When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. 

XLVI 

She gazed into the fresh-thrown mould, as though 
One glance did fully all its secrets tell ; 

Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know 
Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well ; 

Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to grow, 
Like to a native lily of the dell : 

Then with her knife, all sudden, she began 

To dig more fervently than misers can. 



Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon 
Her silk had play'd in purple phantasies: 

She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone, 
And put it in her bosom, where it dries 

And freezes utterly unto the bone 

Those dainties made to still an infant's cries ; 

Then 'gan she work again ; nor stay'd her care, 

But to throw back at times her veiling hair. 



That old nurse stood beside her wondering, 
Until her heart felt pity to the core 

At sight of such a dismal labouring. 
And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, 



OR THE POT OF BASIL 205 

And put her lean hands to the horrid thing : 

Three hours they labour'd at this travail sore : 
At last they felt the kernel of the grave, 
And Isabella did not stamp and rave. 



Ah ! wherefore all this wormy circumstance ? 

Why linger at the yawning tomb so long ? 
O for the gentleness of old Romance, 

The simple plaining of a minstrel's song ! 
Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance, 

For here, in truth, it doth not well belong 
To speak : — O turn thee to the very tale. 
And taste the music of that vision pale. 

L 

With duller steel than the Persean sword 
They cut away no formless monster's head, 

But one, whose gentleness did well accord 

With death, as life. The ancient harps have said. 

Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord: 
If Love impersonate was ever dead. 

Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd. 

'T was love ; cold, — dead indeed, but not dethron'd. 



In anxious secrecy they took it home, 
And then the prize was all for Isabel : 

She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb, 
And all around each eye's sepulchral cell 

Pointed each fringed lash ; the smeared loam 
With tears, as chilly as a dripping well. 

She drench'd away : and still she comb'd, and kept 

Sighing all day — and still she kiss'd and wept. 



Then in a silken scarf, — sweet with the dews 
Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby, 



2o6 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

And divine liquids come with odorous ooze 
Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfully, — 

She wrapp'd it up ; and for its tomb did choose 
A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by, 

And cover'd it with mould, and o'er it set 

Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet. 

LIII 

And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, 
And she forgot the blue above the trees, 

And she forgot the dells where waters run, 
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ; 

She had no knowledge when the day was done, 
And the new morn she saw not : but in peace 

Hung over her sweet Basil evermore. 

And moisten' d it with tears unto the core. 



And so she ever fed it with thin tears. 
Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew. 

So that it smelt more balmy than its peers 
Of Basil-tufts in Florence ; for it drew 

Nurture besides, and life, from human fears. 
From the fast mouldering head there shut from 
view : 

So that the jewel, safely casketed, ■ 

Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread. 



O Melancholy, linger here awhile ! 

O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 
O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle. 

Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! 
Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile ; 

Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily, 
And make a pale light in your cypress glooms. 
Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. 



ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 207 



LVI 

Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, 
From the deep throat of sad Melpomene ! 

Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go. 
And touch the strings into a mystery ; 

Sound mournfully upon the winds and low ; 
For simple Isabel is soon to be 

Among the dead: She withers, like a palm 

Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. 



O leave the palm to wither by itself ; 

Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour ! — 
It may not be — those Baalites of pelf. 

Her brethren, noted the continual shower 
From her dead eyes : and many a curious elf. 

Among her kindred, wonder'd that such dower 
Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside 
By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. 



And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much 
Why she sat drooping by the Basil green. 

And why it flourish' d, as by magic touch ; 

Greatly they wonder'd what the thing might 
mean : 

They could not surely give belief, that such 
A very nothing would have power to wean 

Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, 

And even remembrance of her love's delay. 

LIX 

Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift 
This hidden whim ; and long they watch'd in 
vain ; 

For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift, 
And seldom felt she any hunger-pain : 



2o8 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

And when she left, she hurried back, as swift 

As bird on wing to breast its eggs again : 
And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there 
Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. 



Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, 
And to examine it in secret place : 

The thing was vile with green and livid spot, 
And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face : 

The guerdon of their murder they had got, 
And so left Florence in a moment's space, 

Never to turn again. — Away they went. 

With blood upon their heads, to banishment. 

LXI 

O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away ! 

O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 
O Echo, Echo, on some other day. 

From isles Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! 
Spirits of grief, sing not your * Well-a-way !' 

For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die ; 
Will die a death too lone and incomplete, 
Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet. 

LXII 

Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, 
Asking for her lost Basil amorously : 

And with melodious chuckle in the strings 
Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry 

After the Pilgrim in his wanderings. 
To ask him where her Basil was ; and why 

'T was hid from her : ' For cruel 't is,' said she, 

' To steal my Basil -pot away from me.' 



And so she pined, and so she died forlorn. 
Imploring for her Basil to the last. 



FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO MAIA 209 

No heart was there in Florence but did mourn 

In pity of her love, so overcast. 
And a sad ditty of this story born 

From mouth to mouth through all the country 
pass'd : 
Still is the burthen sung — * O cruelty, 
To steal my Basil-pot away from me ! ' 



TO HOMER 

Standing aloof in giant ignorance, 

Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades, 
As one who sits ashore and longs perchance 

To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas. 
So thou wast blind ! — but then the veil was rent, 

For Jove uncurtain'd Heaven to let thee live, 
And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent, 

And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive ; 
Ay on the shores of darkness there is light, 

And precipices show untrodden green ; 
There is a budding morrow in midnight ; 

There is a triple sight in blindness keen : 
Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befell 
To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, and Hell. 



FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO MAIA 

Mother of Hermes ! and still youthful Maia ! 

May I sing to thee 
As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiae ? 

Or may I woo thee 
In earlier Sicilian ? or thy smiles 
Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles, 
By bards who died content on pleasant sward. 
Leaving great verse unto a little clan ? 



2IO THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

O, give me their old vigour, and unheard 
Save of the quiet Primrose, and the span 

Of heaven and few ears. 
Rounded by thee, my song should die away 

Content as theirs. 
Rich in the simple worship of a day. 



SONG 



Hush, hush ! tread softly ! hush, hush, my dear ! 
All the house is asleep, but we know very well 
That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may 
hear, 
Tho' you've padded his night-cap — O sweet Isa- 
bel ! 
Tho' your feet are more light than a Faery's 

feet. 
Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet, — 
Hush, hush ! soft tiptoe ! hush, hush, my dear ! 
For less than a nothing the jealous can hear. 



No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there 

On the river, — all 's still, and the night's sleepy 
eye 
Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care, 
Charm'd to death by the drone of the humming 
May-fly ; 
And the Moon, whether prudish or complai- 
sant. 
Has fled to her bower, well knowing I want 
No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom, 
But my Isabel's eyes, and her lips pulp'd with 
bloom. 






VERSES WRITTEN IN SCOTLAND 211 



III 
Lift the latch ! ah gently ! ah tenderly — sweet ! 

We are dead if that latchet gives one little clink ! 
Well done — now those lips, and a flowery seat — 
The old man may sleep, and the planets may 
wink ; 
The shut rose shall dream of our loves and 

awake 
Full-blown, and such warmth for the morning 
take, 
The stock-dove shall hatch her soft brace and shall 

coo. 
While I kiss to the melody, aching all through. 



VERSES WRITTEN DURING A TOUR 
IN SCOTLAND 



ON VISITING THE TOMB OF BURNS 

The Town, the churchyard, and the setting sun, 
The Clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem. 
Though beautiful, cold — strange — as in a dream, 

I dreamed long ago, now new begun. 

The short lived, paly Summer is but won 
From Winter's ague, for one hour's gleam ; 

Though sapphire- warm, their Stars do never beam : 

All is cold Beauty ; pain is never done : 

For who has mind to relish, Minos- wise, 

The Real of Beauty, free from that dead hue 

Sickly imagination and sick pride 
Cast wan upon it ! Burns ! with honour due 
I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide 

Thy face ; I sin against thy native skies. 



212 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



TO AILSA ROCK 

Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid ! 

Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowls' 
screams ! 

"When were thy shoulders mantled in huge 
streams ? 
When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid ? 
How long is 't since the mighty power bid 

Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams ? 

Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams, 
Or when gray clouds are thy cold coverlid. 
Thou answer' St not ; for thou art dead asleep ; 

Thy life is but two dead eternities — 
The last in air, the former in the deep ; 

First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies — 
Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee 
steep, 

Another cannot wake thy giant size. 

Ill 

WRITTEN IN THE COTTAGE WHERE BURNS WAS BORN 

This mortal body of a thousand days 

Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room, 
Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays, 

Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom ! 
My pulse is warm with thine old Barley-bree, 

My head is light with pledging a great soul, 
My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see, 

Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal ; 
Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor, 

Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find 
The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er, — 

Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind, — 
Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name, — 
O smile among the shades, for this is fame ! 



VERSES WRITTEN IN SCOTLAND 213 



AT FINGAL'S cave 

Not Aladdin magian 
Ever such a work began ; 
Not the wizard of the Dee 
Ever such a dream could see ; 
Not St. John, in Patmos' isle, 
In the passion of his toil, 
When he saw the churches seven. 
Golden aisled, built up in heaven, 
Gazed at such a rugged wonder. 
As I stood its roofing under. 
Lo ! I saw one sleeping there, 
On the marble cold and bare ; 
While the surges wash'd his feet. 
And his garments white did beat 
Drench'd about the sombre rocks ; 
On his neck his well-grown locks. 
Lifted dry above the main. 
Were upon the curl again. 
' What is this ? and what art thou ? ' 
Whisper'd I, and touch'd his brow ; 
' What art thou ? and what is this ? ' 
Whisper'd I, and strove to kiss 
The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes ; 
Up he started in a trice : 
* I am Lycidas, ' said he, 
' Famed in funeral minstrelsy ! 
This was architectured thus 
By the great Oceanus ! — 
Here his mighty waters play 
Hollow organs all the day ; 
Here, by turns, his dolphins all, 
Finny palmers, great and small, 
Come to pay devotion due, — 
Each a mouth of pearls must strew ! 



214 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

Many a mortal of these days 

Dares to pass our sacred ways ; 

Dares to touch, audaciously, 

This cathedral of the sea ! 

I have been the pontiff-priest, 

Where the waters never rest, 

Where a fledgy sea-bird choir 

Soars for ever ! Holy fire 

I have hid from mortal man ; 

Proteus is my Sacristan ! 

But the dulled eye of mortal 

Hath pass'd beyond the rocky portal 

So for ever will I leave 

Such a taint, and soon unweave 

All the magic of the place.' 

So saying, with a Spirit's glance 

He dived ! 



WRITTEN UPON THE TOP OF BEN NEVIS 

Read me a lesson. Muse, and speak it loud 

Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist ! 
I look into the chasms, and a shroud 

Vaporous doth hide them, — just so much 
wist 
Mankind do know of hell ; I look o'erhead. 

And there is sullen mist, — even so much 
Mankind can tell of heaven ; mist is spread 

Before the earth, beneath me, — even such, 
Even so vague is man's sight of himself ! 

Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet, — 
Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf, 

I tread on them, — that all my eye doth meet 
Is mist and crag, not only on this height. 
But in the world of thought and mental might ! 



TO A LADY SEEN AT VAUXHALL 215 

TRANSLATION FROM A SONNET OF 
RONSARD 

Nature withheld Cassandra in the skies, 

For more adornment, a full thousand years ; 
She took their cream of Beauty's fairest dyes, 

And shaped and tinted her above all Peers : 
Meanwhile Love kept her dearly with his wings, 

And underneath their shadow fill'd her eyes 
With such a richness that the cloudy Kings 

Of high Olympus utter'd slavish sighs. 
When from the Heavens I saw her first descend, 

My heart took fire, and only burning pains, 
They were my pleasures — they my Life's sad end ; 

Love pour'd her beauty into my warm veins. 



TO A LADY SEEN FOR A FEW MO- 
MENTS AT VAUXHALL 

Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb. 

Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand, 
Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web. 

And snared by the ungloving of thine hand. 
And yet I never look on midnight sky, 

But I behold thine eyes' well-memoried light ; 
I cannot look upon the rose's dye, 

But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight ; 
I cannot look on any budding flower, 

But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips 
And hearkening for a love-sound, doth devour 

Its sweets in the wrong sense : — Thou dost 
eclipse 
Every delight with sweet remembering. 
And grief unto my darling joys dost bring. 



2i6 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

FANCY 

Ever let the Fancy roam, 

Pleasure never is at home : 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 

Then let winged Fancy wander 

Through the thought still spread beyond her : 

Open wide the mind's cage-door, 

She '11 dart forth, and cloudward soar. 

O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 

Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 

And the enjoying of the Spring 

Fades as does its blossoming ; 

Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too. 

Blushing through the mist and dew, 

Cloys with tasting : What do then ? 

Sit thee by the ingle, when 

The sear faggot blazes bright, 

Spirit of a winter's night ; 

When the soundless earth is muffled. 

And the caked snow is shuffled 

From the ploughboy's heavy shoon ; 

When the Night doth meet the Noon 

In a dark conspiracy 

To banish Even from her sky. 

Sit thee there, and send abroad. 

With a mind self-overawed, 

Fancy, high-commission'd : — send her ! 

She has vassals to attend her : 

She will bring, in spite of frost. 

Beauties that the earth hath lost ; ; 

She will bring thee, all together, 

All delights of summer weather ; 

All the buds and bells of May, 

From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 



5^ 

i 



FANCY 217 

All the hc^aped Autumn's wealth, 

With a still, mysterious stealth : 

She will mix these pleasures up 

.7 "k'; t].i\;e iit wines in a cup, 

And thou shalt quaff it : — thou shalt hear 

Distant harvest-carols clear ; 40 

Rustle of the reaped corn ; 

Sweet hirds antheming the morn : 

And, in the same moment — hark ! 

'T is the early April lark, 

Or the rooks, with busy caw, 

Foraging for sticks and straw. 

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 

The daisy and the marigold ; 

White-plumed lilies, and the first 

Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; 50 

Shaded hyacinth, alway 

Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 

And every leaf, and every flower 

Pearled with the self-same shower. 

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 

Meagre from its celled sleep ; 

And the snake all winter-thin 

Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 

Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 

Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 60 

When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 

Quiet on her mossy nest ; 

Then the hurry and alarm 

When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 

Acorns ripe down-pattering 

While the autumn breezes sing. 

Oh, sweet Fancy ! let her loose •, 
Everything is spoilt by use ; 
Where's the cheek that doth not fade, 
Too much gazed at ? Where 's the maid 70 



2i8 THE POEMS OF - ; .j 

Whose lip mature is ever aew ? 

Where 's the eye, however blue, 

Does not weary ? Where 's tlie face 

One would meet in every place ? 

Where's the voice, however soft, 

One would hear so ve.-y oft ' 

At a touch sweet Plea; , . ; . .■ : eth 

Like to bubbles when : , ' 1 1 <. * h . 

Let, then, winged Fane 

Thee a mistress to thy i ;/ 80 

Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter 

Ere the God of Torment taught her 

How to frown and how to chide ; 

With a waist and with a side 

White as Hebe's, when her zone 

Slipt its golden clasp, and down 

Fell her kirtle to her feet, 

While she held the goblet sweet, 

And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 

Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 90 

Quickly break her prison- string. 

And such j oy s as these she '11 bring. — 

Let the winged Fancy roam, 

Pleasure never is at home. 



ODE 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Have ye souls in heaven too. 
Double-lived in regions new ? 
Yes, and those of heaven commune 
With the spheres of sun and moon ; 
With the noise of fountains wond'rous 
And the parle of voices thund'rous ; 
With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And one another, in soft ease 



SONG 219 

Seated on Elysian lawns 

Browsed by none but Dian's fawns ; 

Underneath large blue-bells tented, 

Where the daisies are rose-scented, 

And the rose herself has got 

Perfume which on earth is not ; 

Where the nightingale doth sing 

Not a senseless, tranced thing. 

But iivine melodious truth ; 

Philcsophic numbers smooth ; 20 

Tales and golden histories 

Of heaven and its mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then, 
On the earth ye live again ; 
And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us, here, the way to find you, 
Where your other souls are joying, 
Never slumber'd, never cloying. 
Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week ; 30 

Of their sorrows and delights ; 
Of their passions and their spites ; 
Of their glory and their shame ; 
What doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thus ye teach us, every day. 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Ye have souls in heaven too. 
Double-lived in regions new ! 40 



SONG 

I HAD a dove and the sweet dove died ; 
And I have thought it died of grieving : 



220 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

O, what could it grieve for ? Its feet were tied, 
With a silken thread of my own hand's weav- 
ing; 

Sweet little red feet ! why should you die — 

Why should you leave me, sweet bird ! why ? 

You lived alone in the forest-tree, 

Why, pretty thing ! would you not live with 
me? 

I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas ; 

Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees ? 



ODE ON MELANCHOLY 



No, no ! go not to Lethe, neither twist 

Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine ; 
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd 

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine ; 
Make not your rosary of yew-berries. 

Nor let the beetle, or the death-moth be 
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl 
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries ; 

For shade to shade will come too drowsily, 
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 



But when the melancholy fit shall fall 

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud. 
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, 

And hides the green hills in an April shroud ; 
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, 

Or on the rainbow of the salt-sand wave, 
Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; 
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, 

Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, 
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 221 



She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die ; 

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh, 

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips : 
Aye, in the very temple of Delight 

Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, 
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous 
tongue 
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine ; 
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might. 
And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 



St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass. 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath. 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death. 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he 
saith, 

II 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : 
The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, 
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails : 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 



222 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



Northward he turneth through a little door, 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor ; 
But no — already had his death-bell rung ; 
The j oys of all his life were said and sung : 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve : 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to 
grieve. 



That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ; 
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide : 
The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. 
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 
With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on 
their breasts. 



At length burst in the argent revelry, 

With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 

Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 

The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triump? s 

gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish away. 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there. 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, 
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care. 
As she had heard old dames full many times de- 
clare. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 2^3 

VI 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honey'd middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they de- 
sire. 

VII 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline : 
The music, yearning like a God in pain. 
She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes divine, 
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 
And back retired ; not cool'd by high disdain, 
But she saw not : her heart was otherwhere ; 
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the 
year. 

VIII 

She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short : 
The hallow'd hour was near at hand : she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy ; all amort. 
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 

IX 

So, purposing each moment to retire, 

She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, 



224 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such 
things have been. 



He ventures in : let no buzz'd whisper tell : 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart. Love's fev'rous citadel : 
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes. 
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage : not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 



Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came. 
Shuffling along with ivory -headed wand, 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland : 
He startled her ; but soon she knew his face, 
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand. 
Saying, ' Mercy, Porphyro 1 hie thee from this 

place ; 
They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty 

race ! 

XII 

* Get hence ! get hence ! there 's dwarfish Hilde- 

brand ; 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He cursed thee and thine, both house and land : 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 225 

Tlien there 's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! flit ! 
Flit like a ghost away.' — 'Ah, Gossip dear, 
We 're safe enough ; here in this armchair sit. 
And tell me how ' — ' Good Saints ! not here, not 

here; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy 

bier.' 

XIII 

He follow'd through a lowly arched way, 

^ Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; 

- And as she mutter'd ' Well-a — well-a-day ! ' 

He found him in a little moonlight room, 

Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 

* Now tell me where is Madeline,' said he, 

* O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 

When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously.* 



* St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve — 
Yet men will murder upon holy days : 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve. 
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help! my lady fair the conjurer plays 
This very night : good angels her deceive ! 
But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to 
grieve.' 

XV 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, 
While Porphyro upon her face doth look. 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
Who keepeth closed a v/ond'rous riddle-book, 
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 



226 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 
His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook 
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 



Sudden a thought came like a full-blown roSe, 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot : then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : 
' A cruel man and impious thou art : 
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst 
seem.' 



' I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,' 
Quoth Porphyro : ' O may I ne'er iSnd grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace. 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face : 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
Or I will, even in a moment's space. 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears. 
And beard them, though they be more fang'd than 
wolves and bears.' 



' Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? 

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing. 

Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ; 

Whose prayers for thee, each morn and even- 
ing, 

Were never miss'd.' Thus plaining, doth she 
bring 

A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 227 

So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 



Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 
That he might see her beauty unespied, 
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, 
While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet. 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met. 
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous 
debt. 



'It shall be as thou wishest,' said the Dame : 

' All cates and dainties shall be stored there 

Quickly on this feast-night : by the tambour frame 

Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to spare, 

For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 

On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 

Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in 

prayer 
The while : Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed. 
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead.' 



So saying she hobbled oif with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; 
The Dame retm-n'd, and whisper'd in his ear 
To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste ; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 



228 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



XXII 

Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair. 
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware : 
With silver taper's light, and pious care. 
She turn'd, -and down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; 
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd 
and fled. 

XXIII 

Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: 
She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. 



A casement high and triple arch'd there was, 
All garlanded with carven imag'ries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass. 
And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings ; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens 
and kings. 



Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 229 

As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, 
Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew faint ; 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal 
taint. 

XXVI 

Anon his heart revives : her vespers done. 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; 
Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: 
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 

xxvii 
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day ; 
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain ; 
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 



Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 
And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, 
And breathed himself : then from the closet crept, 



'230 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 
And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, 
And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo ! — how ■ 
fast she slept. m 



Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half-anguish'd, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 

XXX 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, 
While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; 
With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon ; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 

XXXI 

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night. 
Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 
' And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth 
ache.' 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 231 

XXXII 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk cui'tains: — 't was a midnight charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 
It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. 



Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, 
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute. 
In Provence call'd ' La belle dame sans mercy : ' 
Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan: 
He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured 
stone. 

XXXIV 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
There was a painful change, that nigh oYpeU'd 
The blisses of her dream so pure and d'.ep 
At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye. 
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so Jicamingiy. 

XXXV 

* Ah, Porphyro ! ' said she, ' but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, . 



232 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

Made tuneable with every sweetest vow ; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear : 
How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and 

drear \ - 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear I 
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe. 
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.* 

XXXVI 

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star 
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odour with the violet, — 
Solution sweet : meantime the frost- wind blows 
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 

xxxvii 

'T is dark : quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet : 
* This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! ' 
'T is dark : the iced gusts still rave and beat : 
' No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. — 
Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring ? 
X curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; — 
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.' 

xxxviii 
My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil 

dyed? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 233 

A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 
Saving of thy sweet self ; if thou think' st well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 



' Hark ! 't is an elfin storm from faery land, 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand : — 
The bloated wassailers will never heed : — 
Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead : 
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be, 
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.' 



She huri'ied at his words, beset with fears, 
For there were sleeping dragons all around. 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they 

found. — 
In all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain-droop*d lamp was flickering by each door ; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 
Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar ; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 

XLI 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ; 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide. 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide : — 
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; — 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 



234 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



And they are gone : aye, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, 
"Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 
Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform : 
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 



Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, 

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
What leaf -fringed legend haunts about thy shape 

Of deities or mortals, 'or of both, 
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 

"What men or gods are these ? what maidens loth ? 
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? 
What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstacy ? 

II 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve ; 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 235 



III 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied, 

For ever piping songs for ever new ; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 

For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd. 
For ever panting, and for ever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above, 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 

IV 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead' St thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? 
What little town by river or sea shore. 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. 
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn ? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

V 

O Attic shade ! Fair attitude ! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 

When old age shall this generation waste, 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 



236 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

ODE ON INDOLENCE 

' They toil not, neither do they spin.' 

I 

One morn before me were three figiires seen, 

With bowed necks, and j oined hands, side-faced ; 
And one behind the other stepp'd serene. 

In placid sandals, and in white robes graced ; 
They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn, 

When shifted round to see the other side ; 
They came again ; as when the urn once more 
Is shifted round, the first seen shades return ; 

And they were strange to me, as may betide 
With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore. 



How is it, Shadows ! that I knew ye not ? 

How came ye mulfled in so hush a mask ? 
Was it a silent deep-disguised plot 

To steal away, and leave without a task 
My idle days ? Ripe was the drowsy hour ; 
The blissful cloud of summer-indolence 
Benumb'd my eyes ; my pulse grew less and 
less; 
Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower : 
O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense 
Unhaunted quite of all but — nothingness ? 



A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd 
Each one the face a moment whiles to me ; 

Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd 
And ached for wings, because I knew the three ; 

The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name ; 

The second was Ambition, pale of cheek, 

And ever watchful with fatigued eye ; 

The last, whom I love more, the more of blame 



ODE ON INDOLENCE 237 

Is heap'd upon her, maiden most unmeek, — 
I knew to be my demon Poesy. 

IV 

They faded, and, forsooth 1 I wanted wings : 

O folly ! What is Love ? and where is it ? 
And for that poor Ambition ! it springs 

From a man's little heart's short fever-fit ; 
For Poesy ! — no, — she has not a joy, — 

At least for me, — so sweet as drowsy noons, 
And evenings steep'd in honied indolence ; 
O, for an age so shelter' d from annoy, 

That I may never know how change the moons, 
Or hear the voice of busy common-sense ! 



And once more came they by ; — alas ! wherefore ? 

My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams ; 
My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er 
With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled 
beams : 
The morn was clouded, but no shower fell, 
Tho' in her lids hung the sweet tears of May ; 

The open casement press'd a new-leaved vine. 
Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay ; 
O Shadows ! 't was a time to bid farewell ! 

Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine. 

VI 

So, ye three Ghosts, adieu 1 Ye cannot raise 

My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass ; 
For I would not be dieted with praise, 

A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce ! 
Fade softly from my eyes and be once more 

In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn ; 
Farewell ! I yet have visions for the night. 
And for the day faint visions there is store ; 

Vanish, ye Phantoms ! from my idle spright, 

Into the clouds, and nevermore return ! 



238 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



SONNET 

"Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will tell ; 

No God, no Demon of severe response, 
Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell : 

Then to my human heart I turn at once. 
Heart 1 Thou and I are here sad and alone ; 

I say, why did I laugh ? O mortal pain ! 
O Darkness ! Darkness ! ever must I moan. 

To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain. 
Why did I laugh ? I know this Being's lease. 

My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads ; 
Yet would I on this very midnight cease, 

And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds ; 
Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed, 
But Death intenser — Death is Life's high meed. 



ODE TO FANNY 

Physician Nature ! let my spirit blood ! 

O ease my heart of verse and let me rest ; 
Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood 
Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast. 
A theme ! a theme ! great Nature ! give 

theme ; 
Let me begin my dream. 
I come — I see thee, as thou standest there ; 
Beckon me not into the wintry air. 

Ah ! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears. 

And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries, — 
To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears 
A smile of such delight. 
As brilliant and as bright. 
As when with ravish'd, aching, vassal eyes, 
Lost in soft amaze, 
I gaze, I gaze ! 



ODE TO FANNY 239 

Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast 1 

What stare outfaces now my silver moon ! 
Ah ! keep that hand unravished at the least ; 
Let, let the amorous burn — 
But, pr'ythee, do not turn 
The current of your heart from me so soon. 
O ! save, in charity, 
The quickest pulse for me. 

Save it for me, sweet love ! though music breathe 

Voluptuous visions into the warm air, 
Though swimming through the dance's dangerous 
wreath ; 
Be like an April day 
Smiling and cold and gay, 
A temperate lily, temperatf> as fair ; 
Then, Heaven ! there will be 
A warmer June for me. 

Why, this — you '11 say, my "my ! is not true: 

Put your soft hand upon y: ^r snowy side, 
Where the heart beats : confess — 't is nothing new — 

Must not a woman be 
I A feather on the sea, 
[ Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide ? 

Of as uncertain speed 

As blow-ball from the mead ? 

I know it — and to know it is despair 

To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny ! 
Whose heart goes fluttering for you everywhere, 
Nor, when away you roam. 
Dare keep its wretched home : 
Love, love alone, has pains severe and many : 
Then, loveliest ! keep me free 
From torturing jealousy. 

Ah ! if you prize my subdued soul above 
The poor, the fading, brief pride of an hour ; 



^o THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

j« I none profane my Holy See of love, 
Or with a rude hand break 
'r>ie sacramental cake: 
Let lone else touch the just new-budded flower; 
If 'lot — may my eyes close, 
Lo^ c ! on their last repose. 



A DREAM, AFTER READING DANTE'S 
EPISODE OF PAOLO AND FRANCESCA 

As Hermes once rook to his feathers light, 

"When liiliod Argus, baffled, swoon'd and slept 
So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright 

So play'd, so cL-arm'd, so conquer'd, so bereft 
The dragon- world 01 a, ' its hundred eyes ; 

And seeing it asleep, so fled away — 
Not to pure Ida with its siiow-cold skies. 

Nor unto Tempe where J ove grieved a day ; 
But to that second circle of Md hell. 

Where 'mid the gust, the w ' lirl wind, and the flaw 
Of rain and hai] stonefi, lovers need not tell 

Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw. 
Pale were the lips i kiss'd, and fair the form 
I floated with, about that melancholy storm. 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 



Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, 
Alone and palely loitering ? 

The sedge is wither'd from the lake, 
And no birds sing. 



Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, 
So haggard and so woe-begone ? 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 241 

The squirrel's granary is full, 
And the harvest 's done. 



I see a lily on thy brow, 

With anguish moist and fever dew ; 
And on thy cheek a fading rose 

Fast withereth too. 



I met a lady in the meads, 
Full beautiful — a faery's child ; 

Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
And her eyes were wild. 



I set her on my pacing steed, 
And nothing else saw all day long, 

For sideways would she lean, and sing 
A faery's song. 



I made a garland for her head, 
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; 

She look'd at me as she did love, 
And made sweet moan. 

VII 

She found me roots of relish sweet. 
And honey wild, and manna dew ; 

And sure in language strange she said — 
'I love thee true.' 

VIII 

She took me to her elfin grot. 

And there she gazed, and sighed deep, 
And there I shut her wild wild eyes 

So kiss'd to sleep. 



242 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



IX 

And there we slumber'd on the moss, 
And there I dream'd — Ah ! woe betide ! 

The latest dream I ever dream'd 
On the cold hill side. 



I saw pale kings, and princes too, 
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; 

They cried — ' La Belle Dame sans Merci 
Hath thee in thrall ! ' 



I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 
With horrid warning gaped wide, 

And I awoke, and found me here 
On the cold hill side. 



And this is why I sojourn here, 

Alone and palely loitering, 
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, 

And no birds sing. 

CHORUS OF FAIRIES 

FIKE, AIK, EARTH, AND WATER 
SALAMANDER, ZEPHYR, DUSKETHA, AND BREAMA 

SALAMANDER 

Happy, happy glowing fire ! 

ZEPHYR 

Fragrant air 1 delicious light ! 

DUSKETHA 

Let me to my glooms retire ! 



CHORUS OF FAIRIES 243 

BREAMA 

I to green-weed rivers bright ! 

SALAMANDER 

Happy, happy glowing fire ! 

Dazzling bowers of soft retire, 

Ever let my nourish'd wing, 

Like a bat's, still wandering, 

Faintly fan your fiery spaces, 

Spirit sole in deadly places. 10 

In unhaunted roar and blaze, 

Open eyes that never daze, 

Let me see the myriad shapes 

Of men, and beasts, and fish, and apes, 

Portray'd in many a fiery den, 

And wrought by spumy bitumen. 

On the deep intenser roof, 

Arched every way, aloof, 

Let me breathe upon my skies, 

And anger their live tapestries ; ao 

Free from cold, and every care. 

Of chilly rain, and shivering air. 

ZEPHYR 

Spright of Fire ! away ! away ! 
Or your very roundelay 
Will sear my plumage newly budded 
From its quilled sheath, and studded 
With the self-same dews that fell 
On the May-grown Asphodel. 
Spright of Fire — away ! away 1 



Spright of Fire — away ! away ! 30 

Zephyr, blue-eyed Faery, turn. 
And see my cool sedge-shaded urn. 
Where it rests its mossy brim 
'Mid water-mint and cresses dim ; 



244 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

And th» flowers, in sweet troubles, 

Lift their eyes above the bubbles, 

Like our Queen, when she would please 

To sleep, and Oberon will tease. 

Love me, blue-eyed Faery ! true, 

Soothly I am sick for you. 40 

ZEPHYR 

Gentle Breama ! by the first 

Violet young nature nurst, 

I will bathe myself with thee, 

So you sometime follow me 

To my home, far, far, in west, 

Far beyond the search and quest 

Of the golden-browed sun. 

Come with me, o'er tops of trees, 

To my fragrant palaces, 

Where they ever floating are 50 

Beneath the cherish of a star 

Call'd Vesper, who with silver veil 

Ever hides his brilliance pale. 

Ever gently-drowsed doth keep 

Twilight for the Fays to sleep. 

Fear not that your watery hair 

Will thirst in drouthy ringlets there ; 

Clouds of stored summer rains 

Thou shalt taste, before the stains 

Of the mountain soil they take, 60 

And too unlucent for thee make. 

I love thee, crystal Faery, true ! 

Sooth I am as sick for you ! 

SALAMANDER 

Out, ye aguish Faeries, out ! 
Chilly lovers, what a rout 
Keep ye with yoiu- frozen breath, 
Colder than the mortal death. 
Adder-eyed Dusketha, speak, 
Shall we leave them, and go seek 



CHORUS OF FAIRIES 245 

In the earth's wide entrails old 70 

Couches warm as theirs is cold ? 

for a fiery gloom and thee, 
Dusketha, so enchantingly 
Freckle-wing'd and lizard-sided ! 

DUSKETHA 

By thee, Spright, will I be guided ! 

1 care not for cold or heat ; 

Frost and flame, or sparks, or sleet, 

To my essence are the same ; — 

But I honour more the flame. 

Spright of fire, I follow thee 80 

Wheresoever it may be ; 

To the torrid spouts and fountains, 

Underneath earth-quaked mountains ; 

Or, at thy supreme desire, 

Touch the very pulse of fire 

With my bare unlidded eyes. 

SALAMANDER 

Sweet Dusketha ! paradise ! 
Off, ye icy Spirits, fly ! 
Frosty creatures of the sky ! 

DUSKETHA 

Breathe upon them, fiery Spright ! 90 

ZEPHYR, BREAMA {to each other) 
Away ! away to our delight ! 

SALAMANDER 

Go, feed on icicles, while we 
Bedded in tongued flames will be. 

DUSKETHA 

Lead me to these fev'rous glooms, 
Spright of Fire ! 



246 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



Me to the blooms, 
Blue eyed Zephyr of those flowers 
Far in the west where the May-cloud lowers : 

And the beams of still Vesper, where winds are 

all whist, 
Are shed thro' the rain and the milder mist, 
And twilight your floating bowers. 100 



FAERY SONGS 

I 

Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
Weep no more ! O weep no more ! 
Young buds sleep in the root's white core. 
Dry your eyes ! O dry your eyes, 
For I was taught in Paradise 
To ease my breast of melodies — 

Shed no tear. 
< 

Overhead ! look overhead 
'Mong the blossoms white and red — 
Look up, look up — I flutter now 
On this flush pomegranate bough. 
See me ! 't is this silvery bill 
Ever cures the good man's ill. 
Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
Adieu, Adieu — I fly, adieu, 
I vanish in the heaven's blue — 

Adieu, Adieu ! 



Ah ! woe is me ! poor silver-wing ! 
That I must chant thy lady's dirge, 



ON FAME 247 

And death to this fair haunt of spring, 
Of melody, and streams of flowery verge, — 
Poor silver-wing ! ah ! woe is me ! 
That I must see 
These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall ! 
Go, pretty page ! and in her ear 
Whisper that the hour is near ! 
Softly tell her not to fear 
Such calm favonian burial ! 
Go, pretty page ! and soothly tell, — 
The blossoms hang by a melting spell, 
And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice 

Upon her closed eyes, 
That now in vain are weeping their last tears, 

At sweet life leaving, and those arbours green, — 
Rich dowry from the Spirit of the Spheres, — 
Alas ! poor Queen ! 



ON FAME 

' You cannot eat your cake and have it too.' — Proverb. 

How fever'd is that man, who cannot look 

Upon his mortal days with temperate blood, 
Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book. 

And robs his fair name of its maidenhood : 
It is as if the rose should pluck herself. 

Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom ; 
As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf. 

Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom. 
But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, 

For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed. 
And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire, 
The undisturbed lake has crystal space : 
Why then should man, teasing the world for 
grace, 

Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed? 



248 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



ANOTHER ON FAME 

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy 

To those who woo her with too slavish knees, 
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy, 

And dotes the more upon a heart at ease ; 
She is a Gipsy, — will not speak to those 

Who have not learnt to be content without her ; 
A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close, 

Who thinks they scandal her who talk about 
her; 
A very Gipsy is she, Nilus-born, 

Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar ; 
Ye lovesick Bards ! repay her scorn for scorn ; 

Ye Artists lovelorn ! madmen that ye are ! 
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu, 
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you. 



TO SLEEP 

O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight. 

Shutting, with careful fingers and benign. 
Our gloomj^leased eyes, embower'd from the light, 

Enshaded in forgetfulness divine : 
O soothest Sleep ! if so it please thee, close, 

In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes, 
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws 

Around my bed its dewy charities ; 

Then save me, or the passed day will shine 
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes ; 

Save me from curious conscience, that still lords 
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole ; 

Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards. 
And seal the hushed casket of my soul. 



ODE TO PSYCHE 249 

ODE TO PSYCHE 



Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, 

And pardon that thy secrets should be sung 
Even into thine own soft-conched ear: 

Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 
The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes ? 

1 wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, 

And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise. 
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side 
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof 
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran 
A brooklet, scarce espied : 



'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers fragrant eyed, 

Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, 
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass ; 

Their arms embraced, and their pinions too ; 

Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, 
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, 
And ready still past kisses to outnumber 

At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love : 
The winged boy I knew ; 

But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove ? 
His Psyche true ! 

Ill 
O latest- born and loveliest vision far 
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy 1 
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, 

Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky ; 

Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, 

Nor altar heap'd with flowxrs ; 



2SO THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan 

Upon the midnight hours ; 
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet 

From chain-swung censer teeming ; 
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 



brightest ! though too late for antique vows, 
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre. 

When holy were the haunted forest boughs, 
Holy the air, the water, and the fire ; 

Yet even in these days so far retired ^ 
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans. 
Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 

1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan 

Upon the midnight hours ; 
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet 

From swinged censer teeming ; 
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat 

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 



Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 

In some untrodden region of my mind. 
Where branched thoughts, new- grown with pleasant 
pain. 

Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind : 
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees 

Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep ; 
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and 
bees, 

The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep, 
And in the midst of this wide quietness 
A rosy sanctuary will I dress 
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, 

With buds, and bells, and stars without a name. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 251 

With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, 

Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: 
And there shall be for thee all soft delight 

That shadowy thought can win, 
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, 

To let the warm Love in ! 



SONNET 

If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd, 

And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet 
Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness ; 
Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd, 

Sandals more interwoven and complete 
To fit the naked foot of poesy ; 
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress 
Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd 

By ear industrious, and attention meet ; 
Misers of sound and syllable, no less 
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be 

Jealous of dead leaves in the bay- wreath crown : 
So, if we may not let the Muse be free. 

She will be bound with garlands of her own. 

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 

I 
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 
'T is not through envy of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thine happiness, — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 



252 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



O for a draught of vintage ! that hath been 

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 

Dance, and Provengal song, and sunburnt mirth 1 
O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth ; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 



Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known. 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and 
dies; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs, 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 



Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
Already with thee ! tender is the night, 
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster' d around by all her starry Fays ; 
But here there is no light. 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy 
ways. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 253 

V 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, / 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 

VI 

Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath ; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain', 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstacy ! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 

VII 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for 
home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 



254 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 



VIII 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self ! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf, * 

Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side ; and now 't is buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 
Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep ? 



LAMIA 

PART I 

Upon a time, before the faery broods 

Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods, 

Before King Oberon's bright diadem, 

Sceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem, 

Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns 

From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslipp'd 

lawns, 
The ever-smitten Hermes empty left 
His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft ; 
From high Olympus had he stolen light. 
On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the sight 10 
Of his great summer, and made retreat 
Into a forest on the shores of Crete. 
For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt 
A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt ; 
At whose white feet the languid Tritons poured 
Pearls, while on land they wither'd and adored. 
Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont, 
And in those meads where sometimes she might 

haunt, 
Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse, 



LAMIA 255 

Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd to choose. 20 

Ah, what a world of love was at her feet ! 

So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat 

Burnt from his winged heels to either ear, 

That from a whiteness, as the lily clear, 

Blush'd into roses 'mid his golden hair, 

Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare. 

From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew, 
Breathing upon the flowers his passion new. 
And wound with many a river to its head. 
To find where this sweet nymph prepared her secret 
bed : 30 

In vain ; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found, 
And so he rested, on the lonely ground, 
Pensive, and full of painful jealousies 
Of the Wood^Gods, and even the very trees. 
There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice, 
Such as once heard, in gentle heart, destroys 
All pain but pity : thus the lone voice spake : 
* When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake ! 
When move in a sweet body fit for life. 
And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife 40 

Of hearts and lips ! Ah, miserable me ! ' 
The God, dove-footed, glided silently 
Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed, 
The taller grasses and full-flowering weed, 
Until he found a palpitating snake, 
Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake. 

She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue, 
Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue ; 
Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard, 
Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr'd ; 50 

And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed, 
Dissolved, or brighter shone, or interwreathed 
Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries — 
So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries. 



256 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, 
Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self. 
Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire ; 

Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar : 
Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet ! 
She had a woman's mouth with all its pearls com- 
plete : 60 
And for her eyes — what could such eyes do there 
But weep, and weep, that they were born so 

fair? 
As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air. 
Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake 
Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love's sake, 
And thus ; while Hermes on his pinions lay, 
Like a stoop'd falcon ere he takes his prey : 

' Fair Hermes ! crown' d with feathers, fluttering 

light, 
I had a splendid dream of thee last night : 
I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold, 70 

Among the Gods, upon Olympus old, 
The only sad one ; for thou didst not hear 
The soft, lute-finger'd Muses chanting clear. 
Nor even Apollo when he sang alone, 
Deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long melodious 

moan. 
I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes. 
Break amorous through the clouds, as morning 

breaks, 
And, swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart. 
Strike for the Cretan isle ; and here thou art ! 
Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid ? ' 80 
Whereat the star of Lethe not delay'd 
His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired : 
' Thou smooth-lipp'd serpent, surely high-inspired I 
Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy eyes. 
Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise. 
Telling me only where my nymph is fled, — 



LAMIA 257 

Where she doth breathe ! ' * Bright planet, thou 

hast said,' 
Return'd the snake, ' but seal with oaths, fair God ! ' 
' I swear,' said Hermes, ' by my serpent rod, 
And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown ! 90 

Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms 

blown. 
Then thus again the brilliance feminine : 
' Too frail of heart ! for this lost nymph of thine, 
Free as the air, invisibly, she strays 
About these thornless wilds ; her pleasant days 
She tastes unseen ; unseen her nimble feet 
Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet ; 
From weary tendrils, and bow'd branches green, 
She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen : 
And by my power is her beauty veil'd 100 

To keep it unaffronted, unassail'd 
By the love- glances of unlovely eyes. 
Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear'd Silenus' sighs. 
Pale grew her immortality, for woe 
Of all these lovers, and she grieved so 
I took compassion on her, bade her steep 
Her hair in wei'rd syrops, that would keep 
Her loveliness invisible, yet free 
To wander as she loves, in liberty. 
Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone, no 

If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon ! ' 
Then, once again, the charmed God began 
An oath, and through the serpent's ears it ran 
Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian. 
Ravish'd she lifted her Circean head, 
Blush'd a live damask, and swift-lisping said, 
' I was a woman, let me have once more 
A woman's shape, and charming as before. 
I love a youth of Corinth — O the bliss! 
Give me my woman's form, and place me where he 

is. 120 

Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow, 



258 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now/ 
The God on half-shut feathers sank serene, 
She breathed upon his eyes, and swift was seen 
Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the 

green. 
It was no dream ; or say a dream it was, 
Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass 
Their pleasures in a long immortal dream. 
One warm, flush'd moment, hovering, it might seem 
Dash'd by the wood-nymph's beauty, so he burn'd ; 
Then, lighting on the pnntless verdure, turn'd 131 
To the swoon'd serpent, and with languid arm, 
Delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean charm. 
So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent 
Full of adoring tears and blandishment. 
And towards her stept : she, like a moon in wane, 
Faded before him, cower'd, nor could restrain 
Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower 
That faints into itself at evening hour : 
But the God fostering her chilled hand, 140 

She felt the warmth, her eyelids open'd bland, 
And, like new flowers at morning song of bees, 
Bloom'd, and gave up her honey to the lees. 
Into the green -recessed woods they flew ; 
Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do. 

Left to herself, the serpent now began 
To change ; her elfin blood in madness ran, 
Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, therewith be- 
sprent, 
Wither'd at dew so sweet and virulent ; 
Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish drear, 150 

Hot, glazed, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear, 
Flash'd phosphor and sharp sparks, without 

cooling tear. 
The colours all inflamed throughout her train, 
She writhed about, convulsed with scarlet pain 
A deep volcanian yellow took the place 



1 



LAMIA 259 

Of all her milder-mooned body's grace ; 

And, as the lava ravishes the mead, 

Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede : 

Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars, 

Eclipsed her crescents, and lick'd up her stars : 160 

So that, in moments few, she was undrest 

Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst. 

And rubious-argent : of all these bereft, 

Nothing but pain and ugliness were left. 

Still shone her crown ; that vanish'd, also she 

Melted and disappear'd as suddenly ; 

And in the air, her new voice luting soft. 

Cried, 'Lycius ! gentle Lycius! ' — Borne aloft 

With the bright mists about the mountains hoar 

These words dissolved : Crete's forests heard no 



Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright, 
A full-born beauty new and exquisite ? 
She fled into that valley they pass o'er 
Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas' shore ; 
And rested at the foot of those wild hills, 
The rugged founts of the Persean rills, 
And of that other ridge whose barren back 
Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack. 
South-westward to Cleone. There she stood 
About a young bird's flutter from a wood, 180 

Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread. 
By a clear pool, wherein she passioned 
To see herself escaped from so sore ills, 
While her robes flaunted with the daffodils. 

Ah, happy Lycius ! — for she was a maid 
More beautiful than ever twisted braid, 
Or sigh'd, or blush'd, or on spring-flowered lea 
Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy : 
A virgin purest lipp'd, yet in the lore 
Of love deep learned to the red heart's core : 190 



26o THE POEMS OP' 1818-1819 

Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain 

To unperplex bliss from its neighbour pain ; 

Define their pettish limits, and estrange 

Their points of contact, and swift counterchange ; 

Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart 

Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art ; 

As though in Cupid's college she had spent 

Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent, 

And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment. 

Why this fair creature chose so fairily 21 

By the wayside to linger, we shall see ; 
But first 't is fit to tell how she could muse 
And dream, when in the serpent prison-house. 
Of all she list, strange or magnificent : 
How, ever, where she will'd, her spirit went ; 
Whether to faint Elysium, or where 
Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fair 
Wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly stair ; 
Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine. 
Stretch' d out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine ; 2 
Or where in Pluto's gardens palatine 
Mulciber's columns gleam in far piazzian line. 
And sometimes into cities she would send 
Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend ; 
And once, while among mortals dreaming thus, 
She saw the young Corinthian Lycius 
Charioting foremost in the envious race. 
Like a young Jove with calm uneager face, 
And fell into a swooning love of him. 
Now on the moth- time of that evening dim 2 

He would return that way, as well she knew. 
To Corinth from the shore ; for freshly blew 
The eastern soft wind, and his galley now 
Grated the quay-stones with her brazen prow 
In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle 
Fresh anchor'd ; whither he had been awhile 
To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there 



LAMIA 261 

Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense 

rare. 
Jove heard his vows, and better'd his desire ; 
For by some freakful chance he made retire 230 

From his companions, and set forth to walk, 
Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk : 
Over the solitary hills he fared, 
Thoughtless at first, but ere eve's star appear'd 
His phantasy was lost, where reason fades. 
In the calm'd twilight of Platonic shades. 
Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near — 
Close to her passing, in indifference drear, 
His silent sandals swept the mossy green ; 
So neighbour'd to him, and yet so unseen 240 

She stood : he pass'd, shut up in mysteries. 
His mind wrapp'd like his mantle, while her eyes 
Follow'd his steps, and her neck regal white 
Turn'd — syllabling thus, ' Ah, Lycius bright ! 
And will you leave me on the hills alone ? 
Lycius, look back ! and be some pity shown.' 
He did ; not with cold wonder fearingly. 
But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice ; 
For so delicious were the words she sung. 
It seem'd he had loved them a whole summer long : 
And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up, 251 

Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup. 
And still the cup was full, — while he, afraid 
Lest she should vanish ere his lips had paid 
Due adoration, thus began to adore ; 
Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so 

sure : 
' Leave thee alone ! Look back ! Ah, Goddess, 

see 
"Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee ! 
For pity do not this sad heart belie — 
Even as thou vanishest so I shall die. 260 

Stay ! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay ! 
To thy far wishes will thy streams obey : 



262 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

Stay ! though the greenest woods be thy domain, 

Alone they can drink up the morning rain : 

Though a descended Pleiad, will not one 

Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune 

Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine ? 

So sweetly to these ravish'd ears of mine 

Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst 

fade, 
Thy memory will waste me to a shade : — 270 

For pity do not melt ! ' — ' If I should stay,' 
Said Lamia, ' here, upon this floor of clay, 
And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough. 
What canst thou say or do of charm enough 
To dull the nice remembrance of my home ? 
Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam 
Over these hills and vales, where no joy is, — 
Empty of immortality and bliss ! 
Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know 
That finer spirits cannot breathe below 280 

In human climes, and live ; Alas ! poor youth, 
What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe 
My essence ? What serener palaces, 
Where I may all my many senses please, 
And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts ap- 
pease ? 
It cannot be — Adieu ! ' So said, she rose 
Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose 
The amorous promise of her lone complain, 
Swoon'd murmuring of love, and pale with pain. 
The cruel lady, without any show 290 

Of sorrow for her tender favourite's woe, 
But rather, if her eyes could brighter be. 
With brighter eyes and slow amenity. 
Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh 
The life she had so tangled in her mesh : 
And as he from one trance was weakening 
Into another, she began to sing, 
Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing, 



LAMIA 263 

A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres, 
While, like held breath, the stars drew in their pant- 
ing fires. 300 
And then she whisper'd in such trembling tone. 
As those who, safe together met alone 
For the first time through many anguish'd days, 
Use other speech than looks; bidding him raise 
His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt, 
For that she was a woman, and without 
Any more subtle fluid in her veins 
Than throbbing blood, and that the self -same pains 
Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his. 
And next she wonder'd how his eyes could miss 310 
Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said, 
She dwelt but half retired, and there had led 
Days happy as the gold coin could invent 
Without the aid of love ; yet in content 
Till she saw him, as once she pass'd him by, 
Where 'gainst a column he leant thoughtfully 
At Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets heap'd 
Of amorous herbs and flowers, aewly reap'd 
Late on that eve, as 't was the night before 
The Adonian feast ; whereof she saw no more, 320 
But wept alone those days, for why should she 

adore ? 
Lycius from death awoke into amaze, 
To see her still, and singing so sweet lays ; 
Then from amaze into delight he fell 
To hear her whisper woman's lore so well ; 
And every word she spake enticed him on 
To unperplex'd delight and pleasure known. 
Let the mad poets say whate'er they please 
Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses, 
There is not such a treat among them all, 330 

Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall, 
As a real woman, lineal indeed 
From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed. 
Thus gentle Lamia judged, and judged aright, 



264 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

That Lycius could not love in half a fright, 

So threw the goddess off, and won his heart 

More pleasantly by playing woman's part, 

With no more awe than what her beauty gave, 

That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save. 

Lycius to all made eloquent reply, 340 

Marrying to every word a twin-born sigh : 

And last, pointing to Corinth, ask'd her sweet, 

If 't was too far that night for her soft feet. 

The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness 

Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease 

To a few paces ; not at all surmised 

By blinded Lycius, so in her comprised : 

They pass'd the city gates, he knew not how. 

So noiseless, and he never thought to know. 

As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all, 350 

Throughout her palaces imperial. 
And all her populous streets and temples lewd, 
Mutter'd, like tempest in the distance brew'd. 
To the wide-spreaded night above her towers. 
Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours. 
Shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement white, 
Companion'd or alone ; while many a light 
Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals. 
And threw their moving shadows on the walls, 
Or found them cluster'd in the corniced shade 360 
Of some arch'd temple door, or dusky colonnade. 

Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear. 
Her fingers he press'd hard, as one came near 
With curl'd gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald 

crown, 
Slow-stepp'd, and robed in philosophic gown: 
Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past. 
Into his mantle, adding wings to haste. 
While hurried Lamia trembled : ' Ah,' said he, 
'Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully ? 



LAMIA 265 

Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew ? ' — 370 
' I 'm wearied,' said fair Lamia : * tell me who 
Is that old man ? I cannot bring to mind 
His features: — Lycius ! wherefore did you blind 
Yourself from his quick eyes ? ' Lycius replied, 
' 'T is Apollonius sage, my trusty guide 
And good instructor ; but to-night he seems 
The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams.' 

"While yet he spake they had arrived before 
A pillar'd porch, with lofty portal door. 
Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow 380 
Reflected in the slabbed steps below, 
Mild as a star in water ; for so new 
And so unsullied was the marble hue, 
So through the crystal polish, liquid fine, 
Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine 
Could e'er have touch'd there. Sounds ^olian 
Breathed from the hinges, as the ample span 
Of the wide doors disclosed a place unknown 
Some time to any, but those two alone. 
And a few Persian mutes, who that same year 390 
Were seen about the markets : none knew where 
They could inhabit ; the most curious 
Were foil'd, who watch' d to trace them to their 

house : 
And but the flitter- winged verse must tell, 
For truth's sake, what woe afterwards befell, 
'T would humour many a heart to leave them thus. 
Shut from the busy world of more incredulous. 



PART II 

Love in a hut, with water and a crust, 

Is — Love, forgive us ! — cinders, ashes, dust ; 

Love in a palace is perhaps at last 

More grievous torment than a hermit's fast : — 



266 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

That is a doubtful tale from faery land, 
Hard for the non-elect to understand. 
Had Lycius lived to hand his story down, 
He might have given the moral a fresh frown. 
Or clench'd it quite : but too short was their bliss 
To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice 
hiss. 10 

Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare. 
Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair 
Hover'd and buzz'd his wings, with fearful roar, 
Above the lintel of their chamber door, 
And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor. 

For all this came a ruin : side by side 
They were enthroned, in the even tide, 
Upon a couch, near to a curtaining 
Whose airy texture, from a golden string, 
Floated into the room, and let appear 20 

Unveil'd the summer heaven, blue and clear, 
Betwixt two marble shafts : — there they reposed. 
Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed. 
Saving a tithe which love still open kept. 
That they might see each other while they almost 

slept ; 
When from the slope side of a suburb hill. 
Deafening the swallow's twitter, came a thrill 
Of trumpets — Lycius started — the sounds fled. 
But left a thought, a buzzing in his head. 
For the first time, since first he harbour'd in 30 

That purple-lined palace of sweet sin, 
His spirit pass'd beyond its golden bourn 
Into the noisy world almost forsworn. 
The lady, ever watchful, penetrant, 
Saw this with pain, so arguing a want 
Of something more, more than her empery 
Of joys ; and she began to moan and sigh 
Because he mused beyond her, knowing well 
That but a moment's thought is passion's passing bell. 



LAMIA 267 

'Why do you sigh, fair creature ?' whisper'd he : 40 
' Why do you think ? ' return'd she tenderly : 
' You have deserted me ; — where am I now ? 
Not in your heart while care weighs on your 

brow : 
No, no, you have dismiss'd me ; and I go 
From your breast houseless : aye, it must be so.' 
He answer'd, bending to her open eyes, 
Where he was mirror'd small in paradise, 
' My silver planet, both of eve and morn ! 
Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn, 
While I am striving how to fill my heart 50 

With deeper crimson, and a double smart ? 
How to entangle, trammel up and snare 
Your soul in mine, and labyrinth you there, 
Like the hid scent in an unbudded rose ? 
Aye, a sweet kiss — you see your mighty woes. 
My thoughts ! shall I unveil them ? Listen then ! 
What mortal hath a prize, that other men 
May be confounded and abash'd withal, 
But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical, 
And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice 60 

Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice. 
Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar, 
While through the thronged streets your bridal car 
Wheels round its dazzling spokes.' — The lady's 

cheek 
Trembled ; she nothing said, but, pale and meek. 
Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain 
Of sorrows at his words ; at last with pain 
Beseeching him, the while his hand she wrung, 
To change his purpose. He thereat was stung, 
Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim 70 

Her wild and timid nature to his aim ; 
Besides, for all his love, in self despite. 
Against his better self, he took delight 
Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new. 
His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue 



268 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

Fierce and sanguineous as 't was possible 

In one whose brow had no dark veins to swell. 

Fine was the mitigated fury, like 

Apollo's presence when in act to strike 

The serpent — Ha ! the serpent ! certes, she 80 

Was none. She burnt, she loved the tyranny, 

And, all subdued, consented to the hour 

When to the bridal he should lead his paramour. 

Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth, 

' Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by my 

truth, 
I have not ask'd it, ever thinking thee 
Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny, 
As still I do. Hast any mortal name, 
Fit appellation for this dazzling frame ? 
Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth, 90 

To share our marriage feast and nuptial mirth ? ' 
* I have no friends,' said Lamia, ' no, not one ; 
My presence in wide Corinth hardly known : 
My parents' bones are in their dusty urns 
Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns, 
Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me. 
And I neglect the holy rite for thee. 
Even as you list invite your many guests ; 
But if, as now it seems, your vision rests 
With any pleasure on me, do not bid 100 

Old Apollonius — from him keep me hid.' 
Lycius, perplex'd at words so blind and blank. 
Made close inquiry ; from whose touch she shrank, 
Feigning a sleep ; and he to the dull shade 
Of deep sleep in a moment was betray'd. 

It was the custom then to bring away 
The bride from home at blushing shut of day, 
Veil'd, in a chariot, heralded along 
By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song, 
With other pageants : but this fair unknown no 

Had not a friend. So being left alone. 



LAMIA 269 

(Lycius was gone to summon all his kin,) 

And knowing snrely she could never win 

His foolish heart from its mad pompousness. 

She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress 

The misery in fit magnificence. 

She did so, but 't is doubtful how and whence 

Came, and who were her subtle servitors. 

About the halls, and to and from the doors, 

There was a noise of wings, till in short space 120 

The glowing banquet-room shone with wide-arched 

grace. 
A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone 
Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan 
Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might 

fade. 
Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade 
Of palm and plantain, met from either side, 
High in the midst, in honour of the bride : 
Two palms and then two plantains, and so on. 
From either side their stems branch'd one to one 
All down the aisled place ; and beneath all 130 

There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to 

wall. 
So canopied, lay an untasted feast 
Teeming with odours. Lamia, regal drest, 
Silently paced about, and as she went, 
In pale contented sort of discontent, 
Mission'd her viewless servants to enrich 
The fretted splendour of each nook and niche. 
Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first, 
Came jasper panels ; then, anon, there burst 
Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees, 140 

And with the larger wove in small intricacies. 
Approving all, she faded at self-will, 
And shut the chamber up, close, hush'd and still. 
Complete and ready for the revels rude, 
When dreadful guests would come to spoil her soli- 
tude. 



270 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

The day appear'd, and all the gossip rout. 
O senseless Lycius ! Madman ! wherefore flout 
The silent-blessing fate, warm cloister'd hours, 
And show to common eyes these secret bowers ? 
The herd approach' d ; each guest, with busy brain, 
Arriving at the portal, gazed amain, 151 

And enter'd marvelling : for they knew the street, 
Remember'd it from childhood all complete 
"Without a gap, yet ne'er before had seen 
That royal porch, that high-built fair demesne ; 
So in they hurried all, mazed, curious and keen : 
Save one, who look'd thereon with eye severe, 
And with calm-planted steps walk'd in austere : 
'T was Apollonius : something too he laugh'd. 
As though some knotty problem, that had daft 160 
His patient thought, had now begun to thaw, 
And solve and melt : — 't was just as he foresaw. 

He met within the murmurous vestibule 
His young disciple. ' 'T is no common rule, 
Lycius, '■ said he, ' for uninvited guest 
To force himself upon you, and infest 
"With an unbiddden presence the bright throng 
Of younger friends ; yet must I do this wrong, 
And you forgive me.' Lycius blush'd, and led 
The old man through the inner doors broadspread ; 
With reconciling words and courteous mien 171 

Turning into sweet milk the sophist's spleen. 

Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room, 
Fill'd with pervading brilliance and perfume : 
Before each lucid panel fuming stood 
A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood, 
Each by a sacred tripod held aloft, 
Whose slender feet wide-swerved upon the soft 
Wool-woofed carpets : fifty wreaths of smoke 
From fifty censers their light voyage took 180 

To the high roof, still mimick'd as they rose 



LAMIA 271 

Along the mirror'd walls by twin- clouds odorous. 

Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats inspher'd, 

High as the level of a man's breast rear'd 

On libbard's paws, upheld the heavy gold 

Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told 

Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wine 

Came from the gloomy tun with merry shine. 

Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood. 

Each shrihing in the midst the image of a God. 190 

When in an antechamber every guest 
Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure press'd, 
By ministering slaves, upon his hands and feet, 
And fragrant oils with ceremony meet 
Pour'd on his hair, they all moved to the feast 
In white robes, and themselves in order placed 
Around the silken couches, wondering 
Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth 
could spring. 

Soft went the music the soft air along, 
While fluent Greek a vowel'd under-song 200 

Kept up among the guests, discoursing low 
At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow ; 
But when the happy vintage touch'd their brains, 
Louder they talk, and louder come the strains 
Of powerful instruments : — the gorgeous dyes, 
The space, the splendour of the draperies. 
The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer, 
Beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self, appear, 
Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed. 
And every soul from human trammels freed, 210 

No more so strange ; for merry wine, sweet wine, 
Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine. 
Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height ; 
Flush'd were their cheeks, and bright eyes double 

bright : 
Garlands of every green, and every scent 



272 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

From vales deflower'd, or forest-trees branch-rent. 
In baskets of bright osier'd gold were brought 
High as the handles heap'd, to suit the thought 
Of every guest : that each, as he did please, 
Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow'd at his ease. 

"What wreath for Lamia ? What for Lycius ? 221 
What for the sage, old Apollonius ? 
Upon her aching forehead be there hung 
The leaves of willow and of adder's tongue ; 
And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him 
The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim 
Into forgetfulness ; and, for the sage. 
Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage 
War on his temples. Do not all charms fly 
At the mere touch of cold philosophy ? 230 

There was an awful rainbow once in heaven : 
We know her woof, her texture ; she is given 
In the dull catalogue of common things. 
Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings, 
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line. 
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine — 
Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made 
The tender- person' d Lamia melt into a shade. 

By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place, 
Scarce saw in all the room another face, 240 

Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took 
Full brimm'd, and opposite sent forth a look 
'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance 
From his old teacher's wrinkled countenance, 
And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher 
Had fix'd his eye, without a twinkle or stir, 
Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride. 
Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet 

pride. 
Lycius then press'd her hand, with devout touch. 
As pale it lay upon the rosy couch : 25° 



LAMIA 273 

'T was icy, and the cold ran through his veins ; 

Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains 

Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. 

' Lamia, what means this ? Wherefore dost thou 

start ? 
Know'st thou that man?' Poor Lamia answer'd 

not. 
He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot 
Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal : 
More, more he gazed : his human senses reel: 
Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs ; 
There was no recognition in those orbs: 260 

' Lamia ! ' he cried — and no soft- toned reply. 
The many heard, and the loud revelry 
Grew hush : the stately music no more breathes ; 
The myrtle sicken'd in a thousand wreaths. 
By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased 
A deadly silence step by step increased. 
Until it seem'd a horrid presence there. 
And not a man but felt the terror in his hair. 
' Lamia ! ' he shriek'd ; and nothing but the shriek 
With its sad echo did the silence break. 270 

* Begone, foul dream ! ' he cried, gazing again 
In the bride's face, where now no azure vein 
Wander'd on fair-spaced temples ; no soft bloom 
Misted the cheek ; no passion to illume 
The deep-recessed vision : — all was blight ; 
Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white. 
'Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man! 
Turn them aside, wretch! or the righteous ban 
Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images 
Here represent their shadowy presences, 280 

May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn 
Of painful blindness; leaving thee forlorn, 
In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright 
Of conscience, for their long-offended might, 
For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries^ 
Unlawful magic, and enticing lies. 



274 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 

Corinthians ! look upon that gray-beard wretch! 

Mark how, possess'd, his lashless eyelids stretch 

Around his demon eyes ! Corinthians, see ! 

My sweet bride withers at their potency.' 290 

' Fool ! ' said the sophist, in an under-tone 

Gruff with contempt ; which a death-nighing moan 

From Lycius answer'd, as heart-struck and lost. 

He sank supine beside the aching ghost. 

' Fool ! Fool ! ' repeated he, while his eyes still 

Relented not, nor moved ; ' from every ill 

Of life have I preserved thee to this day, 

And shall I see thee made a serpent's prey ? ' 

Then Lamia breathed death breath ; the sophist's 

eye, 
Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly, 300 
Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging : she, as well 
As her weak hand could any meaning tell, 
Motion'd him to be silent ; vainly so. 
He look'd and look'd again a level — No ! 
* A serpent ! ' echoed he ; no sooner said. 
Than with a frightful scream she vanished : 
And Lycius' arms were empty of delight. 
As were his limbs of life, from that same night. 
On the high couch he lay! — his friends came 

round — 
Supported him — no pulse or breath they found, 310 
And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound. 



SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 275 

DRAMAS 
OTHO THE GREAT 

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS 

DRAMATIS PERSONiE 

Otho the Great, Emperor of Germany. 
LuDOLPH, Ms Son. 
Conrad, DuJce of Franconia. 
Albert, a Knight, favoured by Otho. 
SiGiFRED, an Officer, friend of Ludolph. 
Theodore, / 

GONFRED, f ^^^^^^- 

Ethelbert, an Abbot. 
Gersa, Prince of Hungary. 
An Hungarian Captain. 
Physician. 
Page. 

Nobles, Knights, Attendants, and Soldiers. 
Erminia, Niece of Otho. 
Auranthe, Conrad^s Sister. 
Ladies and Attendants. 
Scene. — The Castle ofFriedburg, its vicinity, and the Hun- 
garian Camp. 
Time. — One Day. 

ACT I 

Scene I. — An Apartment in the Castle 

Enter Conrad 

Conrad. So, I am safe emerged from these broils! 
Amid the wreck of thousands I am whole ; 
For every crime I have a laurel-wreath, 
For every lie a lordship. Nor yet has 
My ship of fortune furl'd her silken sails, — 
Let her glide on ! This danger'd neck is saved, 



276 DRAMAS act i 

By dexterous policy, from the rebel's axe ; 

And of my ducal palace not one stone 

Is bruised by the Hungarian petards. 

Toil hard, ye slaves, and from the miser-earth lo 

Bring forth once more my bullion, treasured deep, 

With all my jewel'd salvers, silver and gold, 

And precious goblets that make rich the wine. 

But why do I stand babbling to myself ? 

Where is Auranthe ? I have news for her 

Shall — 

Enter Auranthe 

Auranthe. Conrad ! what tidings ? Good, if I 
may guess 
From your alert eyes and high-lifted brows. 
What tidings of the battle? Albert? Ludolph ? 
Otho? 

Conrad. You guess aright. And, sister, slurring 
o'er 
Our by-gone quarrels, I confess my heart 20 

Is beating with a child's anxiety. 
To make our golden fortune known to you. 

Auranthe. So serious ? 

Conrad. Yes, so serious, that before 

I utter even the shadow of a hint 
Concerning what will make that sin- worn cheek 
Blush joyous blood through every lineament, 
You must make here a solemn vow to me. 

Auranthe. I pr'ythee, Conrad, do not overact 
The hypocrite. What vow would you impose ? 

Conrad. Trust me for once. That you may be 
assured 30 

'T is not confiding to a broken reed, 
A poor court-bankrupt, outwitted and lost, 
Revolve these facts in your acutest mood. 
In such a mood as now you listen to me : — 
A few days since, I was an open rebel, — 
Against the Emperor, had suborn'd his son, — 



SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 277 

Drawn off his nobles to revolt, — and shown 

Contented fools causes for discontent, 

Fresh hatched in my ambition's eagle-nest ; 

So thrived I as a rebel, — and, behold ! 40 

Now I am Otho's favourite, his dear friend, 

His right hand, his brave Conrad. 

Auranthe. I confess 

You have intrigued with these unsteady times 
To admiration ; but to be a favourite — 

Conrad. I saw my moment. The Hungarians, 
Collected silently in holes and corners, 
Appear'd, a sudden host, in the open day. 
I should have perish'd in our empire's wreck, 
But, calling interest loyalty, swore faith 
To most believing Otho ; and so help'd 50 

His blood-stain'd ensigns to the victory 
In yesterday's hard fight, that it has turn'd 
The edge of his sharp wrath to eager kindness. 

Auranthe. So far yourself. But what is this to 
me 
More than that I am glad ? I gratulate you. 

Conrad. Yes, sister, but it does regard you greatly, 
Nearly, momentously, — aye, painfully ! 
Make me this vow — 

Auranthe. Concerning whom or what ? 

Conrad. Albert ! 

Auranthe. I would inquire somewhat of him : 

You had a letter from me touching him ? 60 

No treason 'gainst his head in deed or word ! 
Surely you spared him at my earnest prayer ? 
Give me the letter — it should not exist ! 

Conrad. At one pernicious charge of the enemy, 
I, for a moment-whiles, was prisoner ta'en 
And rifled, — stuff ! the horses' hoofs have minced 
it! 

Auranthe. He is alive ? 

Conrad. He is ! but here make oath 

To alienate him from your scheming brain, 



278 DRAMAS act i 

Divorce him from your solitary thoughts, 

And cloud him in such utter banishment, 70 

That when his person meets again your eye, 

Your vision shall quite lose its memory, 

And wander past him as through vacancy. 

Auranthe. I '11 not be perj ured. 

Conrad. No, nor great, nor mighty ; 

You would not wear a crown, or rule a kingdom. 
To you it is indifferent. 

Auranthe. What means this ? 

Conrad. You '11 not be perjured ! Go to Albert 
then. 
That camp-mushroom — dishonour of our house. 
Go, page his dusty heels upon a march. 
Furbish his jingling baldric while he sleeps, 80 

And share his mouldy ration in a siege. 
Yet stay, — perhaps a charm may call you back. 
And make the widening circlets of your eyes 
Sparkle with healthy fevers. — The Emperor 
Hath given consent that you should marry Lu- 
dolph ! 

Auranthe. Can it be, brother ? For a golden 
crown 
With a queen's awful lips I doubly thank you ! 
This is to wake in Paradise ! Farewell 
Thou clod of yesterday — 't was not myself ! 
Not till this moment did I ever feel 90 

My spirit's faculties ! I '11 flatter you 
For this, and be you ever proud of it ; 
Thou, Jove-like, struck'dst thy forehead. 
And from the teeming marrow of thy brain 
I spring complete Minerva ! but the prince — 
His highness Ludolph — where is he ? 

Conrad: I know not : 

When, lackying my counsel at a beck. 
The rebel lords, on bended knees, received 
The Emperor's pardon, Ludolph kept aloof, 
Sole, in a stiff, fool-hardy, sulky pride ; 100 



SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 279 

Yet, for all this, I never saw a father 
In such a sickly longing for his son. 
We shall soon see him, for the Emperor 
He will be here this morning. 

Auranthe. That I heard 

Among the midnight rumours from the camp. 

Conrad. You give up Albert to me ? 

Auranthe. Harm him not ! 

E'en for his highness Ludolph's sceptry hand, 
I would not Albert suffer any wrong. 

Conrad. Have I not laboured, plotted — ? 

Auranthe. See you spare him : 

Nor be pathetic, my kind benefactor ! no 

On all the many bounties of your hand, — 
'T was for yourself you laboured — not for me ! 
Do you not count, when I am queen, to take 
Advantage of your chance discoveries 
Of my poor secrets, and so hold a rod 
Over my life ? 

Conrad. Let not this slave — this villain — 

Be cause of feud between us. See ! he comes ! 
Look, woman, look, your Albert is quite safe ! 
In haste it seems. Now shall I be in the way, 
And wish'd with silent curses in my grave, 120 

Or side by side with 'whelmed mariners. 

Enter Albert. 

Albert. Fair on your graces fall this early mor- 
row! 
So it is like to do without my prayers. 
For your right noble names, like favourite tunes. 
Have fallen full frequent from our Emperoi-'s lips. 
High commented with smiles. 

Auranthe. Noble Albert! 

Conrad {aside). Noble ! 

Auranthe. Such salutation argues a glad heart 
In our prosperity. We thank you, sir. 

Albert. Lady I 



28o DRAMAS act i 

O, would to Heaven your poor servant 

Could do you better service than mere words! 130 

But I have other greeting than mine own, 

From no less man than Otho, who has sent 

This ring as pledge of dearest amity ; 

'T is chosen I hear from Hymen's jewelry, 

And you will prize it, lady, I doubt not, 

Beyond all pleasures past, and all to come. 

To you great duke — 

Conrad. To me ! What of me, ha ? 

Albert. What pleased your grace to say ? 

Conrad. Your message, sir ! 

Albert. You mean not this to me ? 

Conrad. Sister, this way ; 

For there shall be no ' gentle Alberts ' now, 140 



No ' sweet Auranthes ! ' 

[Exeunt Conrad and Auranthe. 
Albert (solus). The duke is out of temper ; if he 
knows 
More than a brother of his sister ought, 
I should not quarrel with his peevishness. 
Auranthe — Heaven preserve her always fair ! — 
Is in the heady, proud, ambitious vein ; 
I bicker not with her, — bid her farewell ! 
She has taken flight from me, then let her soar, — 
He is a fool who stands at pining gaze ! 
But for poor Ludolph, he is food for sorrow : 150 m 

No leveling bluster of my licensed thoughts, | 

No military swagger of my mind, 
Can smother from myself the wrong I 've done 

him, — 
Without design indeed, — yet it is so, — 
And opiate for the conscience have I none ! 

[Exit. 



SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 281 



Scene II. — The Court-yard of the Castle 

Martial Music. Enter, from, the outer gate, Otho, 
Nobles, Knights, and Attendants. The Soldiers halt 
at the gate, with Banners in sight. 

Otho. Where is my noble Herald ? 

Enter Conrad, from the Castle, attended ly two 
Knights and Servants. Albert following. 

Well, hast told 
Auranthe our intent imperial ? 
Lest our rent banners, too o' the sudden shown, 
Should fright her silken casements, and dismay 
Her household to our lack of entertainment. 
A victory ! 

Conrad. God save illustrious Otho ! 

Otho. Aye, Conrad, it will pluck out all gray 
hairs ; 
It is the best physician for the spleen ; 
The courtliest inviter to a feast ; 
The subtlest excuser of small faults ; 10 

And a nice judge in the age and smack of wine. 

Enter from the Castle, Ajj-rk^hwe., followed by Pages, 
holding up her robes, and a train of Women. She 
kneels. 
Hail my sweet hostess ! I do thank the stars, 
Or my good soldiers, or their ladies' eyes, 
That, after such a merry battle fought, 
I can, all safe in body and in soul. 
Kiss your fair hand and lady fortune's too. 
My ring ! now, on my life, it doth rejoice 
These lips to feel 't on this soft ivory ! 
Keep it, my brightest daughter ; it may prove 
The little prologue to a line of kings. 20 

I strove against thee and my hot-blood son, 



282 DRAMAS ACT i 

Dull blockhead that I was to be so blind, 
But now my sight is clear ; forgive me, lady. 

Auranthe. My lord, I was a vassal to your frown, 
And now your favour makes me but more humble ; 
In wintry winds the simple snow is safe, 
But fadeth at the greeting of the sun : 
Unto thine anger I might well have spoken, 
Taking on me a woman's privilege, 
But this so sudden kindness makes me dumb. 30 

Otho. What need of this ? Enough, if you will be 
A potent tutoress to my wayward boy. 
And teach him, what it seems his nurse could not, 
To say, for once, I thank you ! Sigif red ! 

Albert. He has not yet returned, my gracious 
liege. 

Otho. What then ! No tidings of my friendly 
Arab ? 

Conrad. None, mighty Otho. 

\^To one of Ms Knights who goes out. 
Send forth instantly 
An hundred horsemen from my honoured gates, 
To scour the plains and search the cottages. 
Cry a reward, to him who shall first bring 40 

News of that vanished Arabian, 
A fuU-heap'd helmet of the purest gold. 

Otho. More thanks, good Conrad ; for, except my 
son's, 
There is no face I rather would behold 
Than that same quick-eyed pagan's. By the saints, 
This coming night of banquets must not light 
Her dazzling torches ; nor the music breathe 
Smooth, without clashing cymbal, tones of peace 
And in-door melodies : nor the ruddy wine 
Ebb spouting to the lees ; if I pledge not, 50 

In my first cup, that Arab ! 

Albert. Mighty Monarch, 

I wonder not this stranger's victor-deeds 
So hang upon your spirit. Twice in the fight 



SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 283 

It was my chance to meet his olive brow, 
Triumphant in the enemy's shatter'd rhomb ; 
And, to say truth, in any Christian arm 
I never saw such prowess. 

OtJio. Did you ever ? 

O, 't is a noble boy ! — tut ! — what do I say ? 
I mean a^triple Saladin, whose eyes. 
When in the glorious scuffle they met mine, 60 

Seem'd to say — ' Sleep, old man, in safety sleep ; 
I am the victory ! ' 

Conrad. Pity he 's not here. 

Otho. And my son too, pity he is not here. 
Lady Auranthe, I would not make you blush, 
But can you give a guess where Ludolph is ? 
Know you not of him ? 

Auranthe. Indeed, my liege, no secret — 

Otho. Nay, nay, without more words, dost know 
of him ? 

Auranthe. I would I were so over-fortunate, 
Both for his sake and mine, and to make glad 
A father's ears with tidings of his son. 70 

Otho. I see 'tis like to be a tedious day. 
"Were Theodore and Gonfred and the rest 
Sent forth with my commands ? 

Albert. Aye, my lord. 

Otlio. And no news ! No news ! 'Faith ! 't is very 
strange 
He thus avoids us. Lady, is 't not strange ? 
Will he be truant to you too ? It is a shame. 

Conrad. Will 't please your highness enter, and 
accept, 
The unworthy welcome of your servant's house ? 
Leaving your cares to one whose diligence 
May in few hours make pleasures of them all. 80 

Otho. Not so tedious, Conrad. No, no, no, — 
I must see Ludolph or the — What 's that shout ? 

Voices loithout. Huzza ! huzza ! Long live the 
Emperor ! 



284 DRAMAS act i 

Other voices. Fall back ! Away there ! 

Otho. Say what noise is that ? 



Albert advancing from the hack of the 

whither he had hastened on hearing the cheers of 

the soldiery. 

Albert. It is young Gersa, the Hungarian prince, 
Pick'd like a red stag from the fallow herd 
Of prisoners. Poor prince, forlorn he steps, 
Slow, and demure, and proud in his despair. 
If I may judge by his so tragic bearing, 
His eyes not downcast, and his folded arm, 90 

He doth this moment wish himself asleep 
Among his fallen captains on yon plains. 

Enter Gersa, in chains, and guarded. 

Otho. Well said. Sir Albert. 

Gersa. Not a word of greeting, 

No welcome to a princely visitor. 
Most mighty Otho ? Will not my great host 
Vouchsafe a syllable, before he bids 
His gentlemen conduct me with all care 
To some securest lodging — cold perhaps ! 

OtTio. What mood is this ? Hath fortune touch'd 
thy brain ? 

Oersa. O kings and princes of this fev'rous world. 
What abject things, what mockeries must ye be, loi 
What nerveless minions of safe palaces ! 
When here, a monarch, whose proud foot is used 
To fallen princes' necks, as to his stirrup, 
Must needs exclaim that I am mad forsooth, 
Because I cannot flatter with bent knees 
My conqueror ! 

Otho. Gersa, I think you wrong me : 

I think I have a better fame abroad. 

Oersa. I pr'ythee mock me not with gentle speech, 
But, as a favour, bid me from thy presence ; no 
Let me no longer be the wondering food 
Of all these eyes ; pr'ythee command me hence I 



SCENE 11 OTHO THE GREAT 285 

Otho. Do not mistake me, Gersa. That you may 
not, 
Come, fair xliirantlie, try if j^our soft hands 
Can manage those hard rivets to set free 
So brave a prince and soldier. 

Auranthe {sets Mm free). Welcome task ! 

Gersa. I am woiind up in deep astonishment ! 
Thank you, fair lady. Otho ! emperor ! 
You rob me of myself ; my dignity 
Is now your infant ; I am a weak child. 120 

Otiio. Give me your hand, and let this kindly 
grasp 
Live in our memories. 

Gersa. In mine it will. 

I blush to think of my unchasten'd tongue ; 
But I was haunted by the monstrous ghost 
Of all our slain battalions. Sire, reflect, 
And pardon you will grant, that, at this hour. 
The bruised remnants of our stricken camp 
Are huddling undistinguish'd my dear friends, 
With common thousands, into shallow graves. 

Otho. Enough, most noble Gersa. You are free 130 
To cheer the brave remainder of your host 
By your own healing presence, and that too. 
Not as their leader merely, but their king ; 
For, as I hear, the wily enemy. 
Who eased the crownet from your infant brows. 
Bloody Taraxa, is among the dead. 

Gersa. Then I retire, so generous Otho please, 
Bearing with me a weight of benefits 
Too heavy to be borne. 

OtJio. It is not so ; 

Still understand me, King of Hungary, 140 

Nor judge my open purposes awry. 
Though I did hold you high in my esteem 
For your self's sake, I do not personate 
The stage-play emperor to entrap applause, 
To set the silly sort 0' the world agape. 



286 DRAMAS act i 

And make the politic smile ; no, I have heard 
How in the Council you condemn' d this war, 
Urging the perfidy of broken faith, — 
For that I am your friend. 

Gersa. If ever, sire, 

You are my enemy, I dare here swear 150 

'T will not be Gersa' s fault. Otho, farewell ! 

Otho. Will you return, Prince, to our banqueting ? 

Gersa. As to my father's board I will return. 

Otho. Conrad, with all due ceremony, give 
The prince a regal escort to his camp ; 
Albert, go thou and bear him company. 
Gersa, farewell ! 

Gersa. All happiness attend you ! 

Otho. Return with what good speed you may ; for 
soon 
We must consult upon our terms of peace. 

[Exeu?it Gersa and Albert with others. 
And thus a marble column do I build 160 

To prop my empire's dome. Conrad, in thee 
I have another steadfast one, to uphold 
The portals of my state ; and, for my own 
Pre-eminence and safety, I will strive 
To keep thy strength upon its pedestal. 
For, without thee, this day I might have been 
A show-monster about the streets of Prague, 
In chains, as j ust now stood that noble prince : 
And then to me no mercy had been shown. 
For when the conquer'd lion is once dungeon'd, 170 
Who lets him forth again ? or dares to give 
An old lion sugar-cakes of mild reprieve ? 
Not to thine ear alone I make confession, 
But to all here, as, by experience, 
I know how the great basement of all power 
Is frankness, and a true tongue to the world ; 
And how intriguing secrecy is proof 
Of fear and weakness, and a hollow state. 
Conrad, I owe thee much. 



SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 287 

Conrad. To kiss that hand, 

My emperor, is ample recompense, 180 

For a mere act of duty. 

Otho. Thou art wrong ; 

For what can any man on earth do more ? 
We will make trial of your house's welcome, 
My bright Auranthe ! 

Conrad. How is Friedburg honoured ! 

Enter Ethelbert and six Monies. 

Ethelbert. The benison of heaven on your head, 
Imperial Otho ! 

OtJio. Who stays me ? Speak ! Quick ! 

Ethelbert. Pause but one moment, mighty con- 
queror ! 
Upon the threshold of this house of joy. 

Otho. Pray, do not prose, good Ethelbert, but 
speak 
What is your purpose. 

Ethelbert. The restoration of some captive maids. 
Devoted to Heaven's pious ministries, 191 

Who, driven forth from their religious cells, 
And kept in thraldom by our enemy, 
When late this province was a lawless spoil. 
Still weep amid the wild Hungarian camp. 
Though hemm'd around by thy victorious arms. 

Otho. Demand the holy sisterhood in our name 
From Gersa's tents. Farewell, old Ethelbert. 

Ethelbert. The saints will bless you for this pious 
care. 

Otho. Daughter, your hand ; Ludolph's would fit 
it best. 200 

Conrad. Ho ! let the music sound ! 

{^Music. Ethelbert raises his hands^ as in benedic- 
tion o/Otho. Exeunt severally. Tlie scene closes 
on them. 



288 DRAMAS act i 

Scene III. — The Country^ with the Castle in the 
distance 

Enter Ludolph and Sigifred. 

Ludolph. You have my secret ; let it not be 
breathed. 

Sigifred. Still give me leave to wonder that the 
Prince 
Ludolph and the swift Arab are the same ; 
Still to rejoice that 't was a German arm 
Death doing in a turban'd masquerade. 

Ludolph. The emperor must not know it, Sigifred. 

Sigifred. I pr'ythee, why? What happier hour 
of time 
Could thy pleased star point down upon from hea- 
ven 
With silver index, bidding thee make peace ? 

Ludolph. Still it must not be known, good Sigi- 
fred ; lo 
The star may point oblique. 

Sigifred. If Otho knew 

His son to be that unknown Mussulman, 
After whose spurring heels he sent me forth, 
With one of. his well-pleased Olympian oaths, 
The charters of man's greatness, at this hour 
He would be watching round the castle walls. 
And, like an anxious warder, strain his sight 
For the first glimpse of such a son return'd — 
Ludolph, that blast of the Hungarians, 
That Saracenic meteor of the fight, 20 

That silent fury, whose fell scimitar 
Kept danger all aloof from Otho's head, 
And left him space for wonder. 

Ludolph. Say no more. 

Not as a swordsman would I pardon claim. 
But as a son. The bronzed centurion, 
Long toil'd in foreign wars, and whose high deeds 



SCENE III OTHO THE GREAT 289 

Are shaded in a forest of tall spears, 
Known only to his troop, hath greater plea 
Of favour with my sire than I can have. 

Sigifred. My lord, forgive me that I cannot see 
How this proud temper with clear reason squares. 31 
What made you then, with such an anxious love. 
Hover around that life, whose bitter days 
You vext with bad revolt ? Was 't opium. 
Or the mad-fumed wine ? Nay, do not frown, 
I rather would grieve with you than upbraid. 

Ludolph. I do believe you. No, 't was not to 
make 
A father his son's debtor, or to heal 
His deep heart-sickness for a rebel child. 
'T was done in memory of my boyish days, 40 

Poor cancel for his kindness to my youth, 
For all his calming of my childish griefs, 
And all his smiles upon my merriment. 
No, not a thousand foughten fields could sponge 
Those days paternal from my memory, 
Though now upon my head he heaps disgrace. 

Sigifred. My prince, you think too harshly — 

Ludolph. Can I so ? 

Hath he not gall'd my spirit to the quick ? 
And with a sullen rigour obstinate 
Pour'd out a phial of wrath upon my faults ? 50 

Hunted me as the Tartar does the boar, 
Driven me to the very edge o' the world, 
And almost put a price upon my head ? 

Sigifred. Remember how he spared the rebel 
lords. 

Ludolph. Yes, yes, I know he hath a noble nature 
That cannot trample on the fallen. But his 
Is not the only proud heart in his realm. 
He hath wrong'd me, and I have done him wrong ; 
He hath loved me, and I have shown him kindness ; 
We should be almost equal. 

Yet, for all this, 60 



290 DRAMAS ACT I 

I would you had appear' d among those lords, 
And ta'en his favour. 

Ludolpli. Ha ! till now I thought 

My friend had held poor Ludolph's honour dear. 
What ! would you have me sue before his throne > 
And kiss the courtier's missal, its silk steps ? 
Or hug the golden housings of his steed, 
Amid a camp, whose steeled swarms I dared 
But yesterday ? And, at the trumpet sound, 
Bow like some unknown mercenary's flag 
And lick the soiled grass ? No, no, my friend, 70 
I would not, I, be pardon'd in the heap. 
And bless indemnity with all that scum, — 
Those men I mean, who on my shoulders propp'd 
Their weak rebellion, winning me with lies, 
And pitying forsooth my many wrongs ; 
Poor self -deceived wretches, who must think 
Each one himself a king in embryo, 
Because some dozen vassals cried — my lord ! 
Cowards, who never knew their little hearts, 
Till flurried danger held the mirror up, 80 

And then they own'd themselves without a blush, 
Curling, like spaniels, round my father's feet. 
Such things deserted me and are forgiven, 
While I, less guilty, am an outcast still. 
And will be, for I love such fair disgrace. 

Sifjifred. I know the clear truth ; so would Otho 
see. 
For he is just and noble. Fain would I 
Be pleader for you — 

LudolpJi. He '11 hear none of it ; 

You know his temper, hot, proud, obstinate; 
Endanger not yourself so uselessly. 90 

I will encounter his thwart spleen myself. 
To-day, at the Duke Conrad's, where he keeps 
His crowded state after the victory, 
There will I be, a most unwelcome guest, 
And parley with him, as a son should do, 



SCENE III OTHO THE GREAT 291 

Who doubly loathes a father's tyranny ; 

Tell him how feeble is that tyranny ; 

How the relationship of father and son 

Is no more valid than a silken leash 

Where lions tug adverse, if love grow not 100 

From interchanged love through many years. 

Aye, and those turreted Franconian walls, 

Like to a jealous casket, hold my pearl — 

My fair Auranthe ! Yes, I will be there. 

Sigifred. Be not so rash ; wait till his wrath shall 
pass. 
Until his royal spirit softly ebbs 
Self -influenced ; then, in his morning dreams 
He will forgive thee, and awake in grief 
To have not thy good morrow. 

Ludolijh. Yes, to-day 

I must be there, while her young pulses beat no 
Among the new-plumed minions of the war. 
Have you seen her of late ? No ? Auranthe, 
Franconia's fair sister, 'tis I mean. 
She should be paler for my troublous days — 
And there it is — my father's iron lips 
Have sworn divorcement 'twixt me and my right. 

Sigifred (aside). Auranthe! I had hoped this 
whim had pass'd. 

Ludol2Jh. And, Sigifred, with all his love of justice. 
When will he take that grandchild in his arms, 
That, by my love I swear, shall soon be his ? 120 

This reconcilement is impossible, 
For see — but who are these ? 

Sigifred. They are messengers 

From our great emperor ; to you, I doubt not, 
For couriers are abroad to seek you out. 

Enter Theodore and Gonfred. 
Theodore. Seeing so many vigilant eyes explore 
The province to invite your highness back 
To your high dignities, we are too happy. 



292 DRAMAS ACT ii I 

Oonfred. We have eloquence to colour justly 
The emperor's anxious wishes. 

Ludolph. Go. I follow you. 

[Exeunt Theodore and Gonpred. 

I play the prude : it is but venturing — 130 

Why should he be so earnest ? Come, my friend, 

Let us to Friedburg castle. 



ACT II 
Scene I. — An antechamber in the Castle 

Enter Ludolph and Sigipred. 

Ludolph. No more advices, no more cautioning ; 
I leave it all to fate — to any thing ! 
I cannot square my conduct to time, place, 
Or circumstance : to me 'tis all a mist ! 

Sigifred. I say no more. 

Imdolph. It seems I am to wait 

Here in the anteroom ; — that may be a trifle. 
You see now how I dance attendance here, 
Without that tyrant temper, you so blame. 
Snapping the rein. You have medicined me 
With good advices ; and I here remain, 10 

In this most honourable anteroom. 
Your patient scholar. 

Sigifred. Do not wrong me. Prince. 

By Heavens, I 'd rather kiss Duke Conrad's slipper, 
When in the morning he doth yawn with pride. 
Than see you humbled but a half-degree ! 
Truth is, the Emperor would fain dismiss 
The Nobles ere he sees you. 

Enter Gonpred /r6>m the Council-room. 

Ludolph. Well, sir ! what ? 

Gonfred. Great honour to the Prince ! The Em- 
peror, 



SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 293 

Hearing that his brave son had reappeared, 
Instant dismiss'd the Council from his sight, 20 

As Jove fans off the clouds. Even now they pass. 

[Bxit. 

Enter the Nobles from the Council-room. They cross 

the Stage, howing with respect to Ludolph, lie 

frowning on them. Conrad follows. Exeunt 

Nobles. 

Ludolph. Not the discoloured poisons of a fen. 
Which he, who breathes, feels warning of his death, 
Could taste so nauseous to the bodily sense, 
As these prodigious sycophants disgust 
The soul's fine palate. 

Conrad. Princely Ludolph, hail ! 

Welcome, thou younger sceptre to the realm ! 
Strength to thy virgin crownet's golden buds, 
That they, against the winter of thy sire. 
May burst, and swell, and flourish round thy brows, 
Maturing to a weighty diadem ! 31 

Yet be that hour far off ; and may he live. 
Who waits for thee, as the chapp'd earth for rain. 
Set my life's star! I have lived long enough, 
Since under my glad roof, propitiously, 
Father and son each other re-possess. 

Ludolph. Fine wording, Duke ! but words could 
never yet 
Forestall the fates ; have you not learnt that yet ? 
Let me look well : your features are the same ; 
Your gait the same ; your hair of the same shade ; 
As one I knew some passed weeks ago, 41 

Who sung far different notes into mine ears. 
I have mine own particular comments on 't ; 
You have your own, perhaps. 

Conrad. My gracious Prince, 

All men may err. In trutli I was deceived 
In your great father's nature, as you were. 
Had I known that of him I have since known. 



294 DRAMAS act ii 

And what you soon will learn, I would have turn'd 
My sword to my own throat, rather than held 
Its threatening edge against a good King's quiet : 50 
Or with one word fever'd you, gentle Prince, 
Who seem'd to me, as rugged times then went, 
Indeed too much oppress'd. May I he bold 
To tell the Emperor you will haste to him ? 
Ludolph. Your Dukedom's privilege will grant so 
much. 

YExit Conrad. 
He 's very close to Otho, a tight leech ! 
Your hand — I go ! Ha ! here the thunder comes 
Sullen against the wind ! If in two angry brows 
My safety lies, then Sigifred, I 'm safe. 59 

Enter Otho and Conrad. 

Otho. Will you make Titan play the lackey -page 
To chattering pigmies ? I would have you know 
That such neglect of our high Majesty 
Annuls all feel of kindred. What is son, — 
Or friend — or brother — or all ties of blood, — 
When the whole kingdom, centred in ourself, 
Is rudely slighted ? Who am I to wait ? 
By Peter's chair ! I have upon my tongue 
A word to fright the proudest spirit here ! — 
Death ! — and slow tortures to the hardy fool. 
Who dares take such large charter from our smiles ! 
Conrad, we would be private ! Sigifred ! 71 

Off ! And none pass this way on pain of death ! 

[E.reunt Conrad and Sigifred. 
Ludolph. This was but half expected, my good 
sire. 
Yet I am grieved at it, to the full height, 
As though my hopes of favour had been whole. 
Otho. How you indulge yourself ! What can you 
hope for ? 
* Ludolph. Nothing, my liege, I have to hope for 
nothing. 



SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 295 

I come to greet you as a loving son, 

And then depart, if I may be so free, 

Seeing tliat blood of yours in my warm veins 80 

Has not yet mitigated into milk. 

OtJio. What would you, sir ? 

Ludolph. A lenient banishment ; 

So please you let me unmolested pass 
This Conrad's gates, to the wide air again. 
I want no more. A rebel wants no more. 

Otho. And shall I let a rebel loose again 
To muster kites and eagles 'gainst my head ? 
No, obstinate boy, you shall be kept caged up. 
Served with harsh food, with scum for Sunday- 
drink. 

Ludolph. Indeed ! 

Otho. And chains too heavy for your life : 

I'll choose a jailer, whose swart monstrous face 90 
Shall be a hell to look upon, and she — 

Ludolph. Ha ! 

Otho. Shall be your fair Auranthe. 

Ludolph. Amaze ! Amaze ! 

Otho. To-day you marry her. 

Ludolph. This is a sharp jest ! 

Otho. No. None at all. When have I said a lie ? 

Ludolph. If I sleep not, I am a waking wretch, 

Otho. Not a word more. Let me embrace my 
child. 

Ludolph. I dare not. 'T would pollute so good a 
father ! 
O heavy crime ! that your son's blinded eyes 
Could not see all his parent's love aright, 100 

As now I see it. Be not kind to me — 
Punish me not with favour. 

Otho. Are you sure, 

Ludolph, you have no saving plea in store ? 

Ludolph. My father, none ! 

Otho. Thjgn you astonish me. 

Ludolph. No, I have no plea. Disobedience, 



296 DRAMAS ACT II 

Rebellion, obstinacy, blasphemy, 
Are all my counsellors. If they can make 
My crooked deeds show good and plausible, 
Then grant^me loving pardon, but not else, 
Good Gods ! not else, in any way, my liege ! 

Otho. You are a most perplexing noble boy. m 

Ludolph. You not less a perplexing noble father. 

Otho. Well, you shall have free passport through 
the gates. 
Farewell ! 

Ludolph. Farewell ! and by these tears believe, 
And still remember, I repent in pain 
All my misdeeds ! 

Otho. Ludolph, I will ! I will ! 

But, Ludolph, ere you go, I would inquire 
If you in all your wandering, ever met 
A certain Arab haunting in these parts. 

Ludolph. No, my good lord, I cannot say I did. 

Othx). Make not your father blind before his 
time ; 121 

Nor let these arms paternal hunger more 
For an embrace, to dull the appetite 
Of my great love for thee, my supreme child ! 
Come close, and let me breathe into thine ear. 
I knew you through disguise. You are the Arab ! 
You can't deny it. {Embracing him, 

Ludolph. Happiest of days ! 

0th/). We'll make it so. 

lAidolph. 'Stead of one fatted calf 

Ten hecatombs shall bellow out their last. 
Smote 'twixt the horns by the death-stunning mace 
Of Mars, and all the soldiery shall feast 131 

Nobly as Nimrod's masons, when the towers 
Of Nineveh new kiss'd the parted clouds! 

Otho. Large as a God speak out, where all is 
thine. 

LAidolph. Ay, father, but the fire in my sad breast 
Is quench'd with inward tears ! I must rejoice 



i 



SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 297 

For you, whose wings so shadow over me 

In tender victory, but for myself 

I still must mourn. The fair Auranthe mine 1 

Too great a boon ! I pr'y thee let me ask 140 

What more than I know of could so have changed 

Your purpose touching her. 

OtJio. At a word, this : 

In no deed did you give me more offence 
Than your rejection of Erminia. 
To my appalling, I saw too good proof 
Of your keen-eyed suspicion, — she is naught ! 

Ludolph. You are convinced ? 

Otlio. Ay, spite of her sweet looks, 

O, that my brother's daughter should so fall ! 
Her fame has pass'd into the grosser lips 
Of soldiers in their cups. 

Ludolph. 'T is very sad. 150 

Otho. No more of her. Auranthe — Ludolph, 
come ! 
This marriage be the bond of endless peace ! 

{^Exeunt. 

Scene II. — The entrance <7/"Gersa's Tent in the 
Hungarian Camp 

Enter Erminia. 
Erminia. Where ! where ! where shall I find a mes- 
senger ! 
A trusty soul ? A good man in the camp ? 
Shall I go myself? Monstrous wickedness ! 
O cursed Conrad ! devilish Auranthe ! 
Here is proof palpable as the bright sun ! 
O for a voice to reach the Emperor's ears ! 

\81iout8 in the ca/mp. 

Enter an Hungarian Captain. 
Captain. Fair prisoner, you hear those joyous 
shouts ? 



298 DRAMAS ACT II 

The king — aye, now our king, — but still your 

slave, 
Young Gersa, from a short captivity 
Has just return'd. He bids me say, bright dame, 10 
That even the homage of his ranged chiefs 
Cures not his keen impatience to behold 
Such beauty once again. What ails you, lady ? 

Erminia. Say, is not that a German, yonder ? 
There ! 

Captain. Methinks by his stout bearing he should 
be — 
Yes — it is Albert ; a brave German knight. 
And much in the Emperor's favour. 

Erminia. I would fain 

Inquire of friends and kinsfolk ; how they fared 
In these rough times. Brave soldier, as you pass 
To royal Gersa with my humble thanks, 20 

Will you send yonder knight to me 1 

Captain. I will. \^Exit. 

Erminia. Yes, he was ever known to be a man 
Frank, open, generous ; Albert I may trust. 
O proof ! proof ! proof ! Albert 's an honest man ; 
Not Ethelbert the monk, if he were here, 
Would I hold more trustworthy. Now ! 

Enter Albert. 

Albert. Good Gods ! 

Lady Erminia ! are you prisoner 
In this beleaguer'd camp ? Or are you here 
Of your own will ? You pleased to send for me. 
By Venus, 't is a pity I knew not 30 

Your plight before, and, by her Son, I swear 
To do you every service you can ask. 
What would the fairest — ? 

Ermina. Albert, will you swear ? 

Albert. I have. Well ? 

Erminia. Albert, you have fame to lose. 
If men, in court and camp, lie not outright, 



SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 299 

You should be, from a thousand, chosen forth 
To do an honest deed. Shall I confide — ? 

Albert. Aye, any thing to me, fair creature. Do; 
Dictate my task. Sweet woman, — 

Erminia. Truce with that. 

You understand me not ; and, in your speech, 40 
I see how far the slander is abroad. 
Without proof could you think me innocent ? 

Albert. Lady, I should rejoice to know you so. 

Erminia. If you have any pity for a maid, 
Suffering a daily death from evil tongues ; 
Any compassion for that Emperor's niece, 
Who, for your bright sword and clear honesty, 
Lifted you from the crowd of common men 
Into the lap of honour ; — save me, knight ! 

Albert. How ? Make it clear ; if it be possible, 
I by the banner of St. Maurice swear 51 

To right you. 

Erminia. Possible ! — Easy. O my heart ! 
This letter's not so soil'd but you may read it ; — 
Possible ! There — that letter ! Kead — read it. 

[^Oives Mm a letter. 

Albert {reading). 

' To the Duke Conrad. — Forget the threat you 
made at parting, and I will forget to send the Em- 
peror letters and papers of yours I have become pos- 
sessed of. His life is no trifle to me ; his death you 
shall find none to yourself.' (Speaks to himself.) 
'Tis me — my life that's pleaded for! (Beads). 
' He, for his own sake, will be dumb as the grave. 
Erminia has my shame fix'd upon her, sure as a wen. 
We are safe. Auranthe.' 

A she-devil ! A dragon ! I her imp ! 
Fire of Hell ! Auranthe — lewd demon ! 
Where got you this ? Where ? When ? 

Erminia. I found it in the tent, among some 
spoils 



300 DRAMAS act ii 

Which, being noble, fell to Gersa's lot. 

Come in, and see. \_They go in and return. 

Albert. Villainy ! Villainy ! 

Conrad's sword, his corselet, and his helm, 70 

And his letter. Caitiff, he shall feel — 

Erminia. I see you are thunderstruck. Haste, 
haste away ! 

Albert. O, I am tortured by this villainy. 

Erminia. You needs must be. Carry it swift to 
Otho; 
Tell him, moreover, I am prisoner 
Here in this camp, where all the sisterhood, 
Forced from their quiet cells, are parcel'd out 
For slaves among these Huns. Away ! Away ! 

Albert. I am gone. 

Erminia. Swift be your steed ! Within this hour 
The Emperor will see it. 

Albert. Ere I sleep : 80 

That I can swear. {Hurries out. 

Gersa {without). Brave captains ! thanks. Enough 
Of loyal homage now ! 

Enter Gersa. 

Erminia. Hail, royal Hun ! 

Oersa. What means this, fair one ? Why in such 
alarm ? 
Who was it hurried by me so distract ? 
It seem'd you were in deep discourse together ; 
Your doctrine has not been so harsh to him 
As to my poor deserts. Come, come, be plain. 
I am no jealous fool to kill you both. 
Or, for such trifles, rob th' adorned world 
Of such a beauteous vestal. 

Erminia. I grieve, my Lord, 90 

To hear you condescend to ribald-phrase. 

Gersa. This is too much ! Hearken, my lady pure ! 

Erminia. Silence! and hear the magic of a 
name — 



SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 301 

Erminia ! I am she, — the Emperor's niece ! 
Praised be the Heavens, I now dare own myself ! 

Oersa. Erminia ! Indeed ! I 've heard of her. 
Pr'ythee, fair lady, what chance brought you here ? 

Erminia. Ask your own soldiers. 

Gersa. And you dare own your name. 

For loveliness you may — and for the rest 
My vein is not censorious. 

Erminia. Alas ! poor me ! 100 

'T is false indeed. 

Oersa. Indeed you are too fair : 

The swan, soft leaning on her fledgy breast, 
When to the stream she launches, looks not back 
With such a tender grace ; nor are her wings 
So white as your soul is, if that but be 
Twin picture to your face, Erminia ! 
To-day, for the first day, I am a king, 
Yet would I give my unworn crown away 
To know you spotless. 

Erminia. Trust me one day more, 

Generously, without more certain guarantee, no 

Than this poor face you deign to praise so much ; 
After that, say and do whate'er you please. 
If I have any knowledge of you, sir, 
I think, nay I am sure, you will grieve much 
To hear my story. O be gentle to me, 
For I am sick and faint with many wrongs. 
Tired out, and weary- worn with contumelies. 

Gersa. Poor lady ! 

Enter Ethelbekt. 
Erminia. Gentle Prince, 'tis false indeed. 

Good morrow, holy father ! I have had 
Your prayers, though I look'd for you in vain. 120 
Ethelhert. Blessings upon you, daughter! Sure 
you look 
Too cheerful for these foul pernicious days. 
Young man, you heard this virgin say 't was false, — 



302 DRAMAS act ii 

'T is false, I say. What ! can you not employ 

Your temper elsewhere, 'mong those burly tents, 

But you must taunt this dove, for she hath lost 

The Eagle Otho to beat off assault ? 

Fie ! Fie ! But I will be her guard myself, 

r the Emperor's name. I here demand 

Herself, and all her sisterhood. She false ! 130 

Gersa. Peace! peace, old man! I cannot think 
she is. 

Ethelbert. Whom I have known from her first in- 
fancy, 
Baptized her in the bosom of the Church, 
Watch'd her, as anxious husbandmen the grain, 
From the first shoot till the unripe mid-May, 
Then to the tender ear of her June days, 
Which, lifting sweet abroad its timid green, 
Is blighted by the touch of calumny ; 
You cannot credit such a monstrous tale. 

Gersa. I cannot. Take her. Fair Erminia, 140 
I follow you to Friedburg, — is 't not so? 

Erminia. Ay, so we purpose. 

Ethelbert. Daughter, do you so ? 

How 's this ? I marvel ! Yet you look not mad. 

Erminia. I have good news to tell you, Ethelbert. 

Gersa. Ho ! ho, there ! Guards ! 
Your blessing, father ! Sweet Erminia, 
Believe me, I am well nigh sure — 

Erminia. Farewell. 

Short time will show. [Enter Chiefs. 

Yes, father Ethelbert, 
I have news precious as we pass along. 149 

Ethelbert. Dear daughter, you shall guide me. 

Erminia. To no ill. 

Gersa. Command an escort to the Friedburg 
lines, [Exeunt Chiefs. 

Pray let me lead. Fair lady, forget not 
Gersa, how he believed you innocent. 
I follow you to Friedburg with all speed. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 303 

ACT III 

Scene I. — The Country 
Enter Albert. 
Albert. O that the earth were empty, as when 
Cain 
Had no perplexity to hide his head ! 
Or that the sword of some brave enemy 
Had put a sudden stop to my hot breath, 
And hurl'd me down the illimitable gulf 
Of times past, unremember'd ! Better so 
Than thus fast-limed in a cursed snare, 
The white limbs of a wanton. This the end 
Of an aspiring life ! My boyhood past 
In feud with w^olves and bears, when no eye saw 10 
The solitary warfare, fought for love 
Of honour 'mid the growling wilderness. 
My sturdier youth, maturing to the sword, 
Won by the syren-trumpets, and the ring 
Of shields upon the pavement, when bright mail'd 
Henry the Fowler pass'd the streets of Prague. 
Was 't to this end I louted and became 
The menial of Mars, and held a spear 
Sway'd by command, as corn is by the wind ? 
Is it for this, I now am lifted up 20 

By Europe's throned Emperor, to see 
My honour be my executioner, — 
My love of fame, my prided honesty 
Put to the torture for confessional ? 
Then the damn'd crime of blurting to the world 
A woman's secret ! — Though a fiend she be, 
Too tender of my ignominious life ; 
But then to wrong the generous Emperor 
In such a searching point, were to give up 
My soul for foot-ball at Hell's holiday ! 30 

I must confess, — and cut my throat, — to-day ? 
To-morrow ? Ho ! some wine ! 



304 DRAMAS act hi 

Enter Sigifred. 

Sigifred. A fine humour — 

Albert. Who goes there ? Count Sigifred ? Ha ! 
ha! 

Sigifred. What, man, do you mistake the hollow 
sky 
For a throng'd tavern, — and these stubbed trees 
For old serge hangings, — me, your humble friend, 
For a poor waiter ? Why, man, how you stare ! 
What gipsies have you been carousing with ? 
No, no more wine ; methinks you 've had enough. 

Albert. You well may laugh and banter. What 
a fool 40 

An injury may make of a staid man ! 
You shall know all anon. 

Sigifred. Some tavern brawl ? 

Albert. 'T was with some people out of common 
reach ; 
Revenge is difficult. 

Sigifred. I am your friend ; 

We meet again to-day, and can confer 
Upon it. For the present I 'm in haste. 

Albert. Whither ? 

Sigifred. To fetch King Gersa to the feast. 
The Emperor on this marriage is so hot, 
Pray Heaven it end not in apoplexy ! 
The very porters, as I pass'd the doors, 50 

Heard his loud laugh, and answer'd in full choir. 
I marvel, Albert, you delay so long 
From these bright revelries ; go, show yourself, 
You may be made a duke. 

Albert. K.j, very like : 

Pray, what day has his Highness fix'd upon ? 

Sigifred. For what ? 

Albert. The marriage. What else can I mean ? 

Sigifred. To-day. O, I forgot, you could not 
know ; 
The news is scarce a minute old with me. 



SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 305 

Albert. Married to day ! To-day ! You did not 

say so ? 
Sigifred. Now, while I speak to you, their comely 
heads 60 

Are bow'd before the mitre. 
Albert. O ! monstrous ! 

Sigifred. What is this ? 

Albert. Nothing, Sigifred. Farewell! 

We '11 meet upon our subject. Farewell, count ! 

[Exit. 
Sigifred. Is this clear-headed Albert ? He brain- 
turn' d ! 
'T is as portentous as a meteor. [Exit. 

Scene II. — An Apartment in the Castle 

Enter as from the Marriage, Otho, Ludolph, 
AuRANTHE, Conrad, Nobles, Knights, Ladies, etc. 
Music. 

Otho. Now Ludolph ! Now Auranthe Daugh- 
ter fair ! 
What can I find to grace your nuptial day 
More than my love, and these wide realms in fee ? 

Ludolph. I have too much. 

Auranthe. And I, my liege, by far. 

Ludolph. Auranthe ! I have ! O, my bride, my 
love ! 
Not all the gaze upon us can restrain 
My eyes, too long poor exiles from thy face, 
From adoration, and my foolish tongue 
From uttering soft responses to the love 
I see in thy mute beauty beaming forth ! 10 

Fair creature, bless me with a single word ! 
All mine ! 

Auranthe. Spare, spare me, my Lord ; I swoon 
else. 

Ludolph. Soft beauty ! by to-morrow I should die, 
Wert thou not mine. [ Thei/ talk apart. 



3o6 DRAMAS act hi 

Ist Lady. How deep she has bewitch'd him ! 

1st Knight. Ask you for her recipe for love phil- 
tres. 

2d Lady. They hold the Emperor in admiration. 

OtJw. If ever king was happy, that am I ! 
What are the cities 'yond the Alps to me, 
The provinces about the Danube's mouth, 
The promise of fair sail beyond the Rhone ; 20 

Or routing out of Hyperborean hordes, 
To these fair children, stars of a new age ? 
Unless perchance I might rejoice to win 
This little ball of earth, and chuck it them 
To play with ! 

Auranthe. Nay, my Lord, I do not know. 

Ludolph. Let me not famish. 

Otho (to Conrad). Good Franconia, 

You heard what oath I sware, as the sun rose, 
That unless Heaven would send me back my 

son. 
My Arab, — no soft music should enrich 
The cool wine, kiss'd off with a soldier's smack ; 30 
Now all my empire, barter'd for one feast. 
Seems poverty. 

Conrad. Upon the neighbour- plain 

The heralds have prepared a royal lists ; 
Your knights, found war-proof in the bloody field, 
Speed to the game. 

Otho. Well, Ludolph, what say you ? 

Ludolph. My lord ! 

Otho. A tourney ? 

Conrad. Or, if 't please you best — 

Ludolph. I want no more ! 

Is^ Lady. He soars ! 

M Lady. Past all reason. 

Imdol^ph. Though heaven's choir 
Should in a vast circumference descend 
And sing for my delight, I 'd stop my ears ! 40 

Though bright Apollo's car stood burning here, 



SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 307 

And he put out an arm to bid me mount, 

His touch an immortality, not I ! 

This earth, this palace, this room, Auranthe! 

Otho. This is a little painful ; just too much. 
Conrad, if he flames longer in this wise, 
I shall believe in wizard-woven loves 
And old romances ; but I '11 break the spell/ 
Ludolph ! 

Conrad. He '11 be calm, anon. 

Ludolph. You call'd ! 

Yes, yes, yes, I offend. You must forgive me : 50 
Not being quite recover'd from the stun 
Of your large bounties. A tourney, is it not ? 

[J. senet heard faintly. 

Conrad. The trumpets reach us. 

Ethelhert (^mthout). On your peril, sirs, 

Detain us! 

\8t Voice iwithoiit). Let not the abbot pass. 

2<? Voice {icithout). No, 
On your lives ! 

\st Voice {without). Holy father, you must not. 

Ethelbert {without). Otho ! 

Otho. Who calls on Otho ? 

Ethelhert {without). Ethelbert ! 

Otho. Let him come in. 

Enter Ethelbert leading in Erminia. 

Thou cursed abbot, why 
Hast brought pollution to our holy rites ? 
Hast thou no fear of hangman, or the faggot ? 

Ludolph. What portent — what strange prodigy 
is this ? 60 

Conrad. Away ! 

Ethelbert. You, Duke ? 

Erminia. Albert has surely fail'd me ! 

Look at the Emperor's brow upon me bent ! 

Ethelbert. A sad delay ! 

Conrad. Away, thou guilty thing ! 



3o8 DRAMAS act iii 

Ethelhert. You again, Duke ? Justice, most noble 
Otho ! 
You — go to your sister there and plot again, 
A quick plot, swift as thought to save your heads ; 
For lo ! the toils are spread around your den. 
The world is all agape to see dragg'd forth 
Two ugly monsters. 

Ludolph. What means he, my lord ? 

Conrad. I cannot guess. 

Ethelbert. Best ask your lady sister, 

"Whether the riddle puzzles her beyond 71 

The power of utterance. 

Conrad. Foul barbarian, cease ; 

The Princess faints! 

Ludolph. Stab him ! O, sweetest wife ! 

{^Attendants hear off Auranthe, 

Erminia. Alas ! 

EtJielhert. Your wife ! 

Ludolph. Aj, Satan ! does that yerk ye ? 

Ethelbert. Wife ! so soon ! 

Ludolph. Ay, wife ! Oh, impudence ! 

Thou bitter mischief ! Venomous bad priest ! 
How dar'st thou lift those beetle brows at me ? 
Me — the prince Ludolph, in this presence here, 
Upon my marriage day, and scandalize 
My joys with such opprobrious surprise ? 80 

Wife ! Why dost linger on that syllable. 
As if it were some demon's name pronounced 
To summon harmful lightning, and make yawn 
The sleepy thunder ? Hast no sense of fear ? 
No ounce of man in thy mortality ? 
Tremble ! for, at my nod, the sharpen'd axe 
Will make thy bold tongue quiver to the roots. 
Those gray lids wink, and thou not know it, monk ! 

Ethelhert. O, poor deceived Prince 1 I pity thee ! 
Great Otho ! I claim justice — 

Ludolph. Thou shalt have 't \ 

Thine arms from forth a pulpit of hot fire 91 



SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 309 

Shall sprawl distracted ! O that that dull cowl 
"Were some most sensitive portion of thy life, 
That I might give it to my hounds to tear ! 
Thy girdle some fine zealous-pained nerve 
To girth my saddle! And those devil's beads 
Each one a life, that I might, every day, 
Crush one with Vulcan's hammer ! 

Otlio. Peace, my son ; 

You far outstrip my spleen in this affair. 
Let us be calm, and hear the abbot's plea 100 

For this intrusion. 

Ludolph. I am silent, sire. 

Otho. Conrad, see all depart not wanted here. 

[^Exeunt Knights, Ladies, etc. 
Ludolph, be calm. Ethelbert, peace awhile. 
This mystery demands an audience 
Of a just judge, and that will Otho be. 

Ludolph. Why has he time to breathe another 
word ? 

Otho. Ludolph, old Ethelbert, be sure, comes not 
To beard us for no cause ; he 's not the man 
To cry himself up an ambassador 
Without credentials. 

Ludolph. I '11 chain up myself. 

Otho. Old abbot, stand here forth. Lady Er- 
minia, m 

Sit. And now, abbot ! what have you to say ? 
Our ear is open. First we here denounce 
Hard penalties against thee, if 't be found 
The cause for which you have disturb'd us here. 
Making our bright hours muddy, be a thing 
Of little moment. 

Ethelbei't. See this innocent ? 

Otho! thou father of the people call'd. 
Is her life nothing ? Her fair honour nothing ? 
Her tears from matins until even-song 120 

Nothing ? Her burst heart nothing ? Emperor ! 
Is this your gentle niece — the simplest flower 



3IO DRAMAS act hi 

Of the world's herbal — this fair lily blanch'd 
Still with the dews of piety, this meek lady 
Here sitting like an angel newly-shent, 
Who veils its snowy wings and grows all pale, — 
Is she nothing ? 

Otho. What more to the purpose, abbot 

Ludolph. Whither is he winding ? 

Conrad. No clue yet! 

Ethelhert. You have heard, my Liege, and so, no 
doubt, all here, 
Foul, poisonous, malignant whisperings ; 130 

Nay open speech, rude mockery grown common, 
Against the spotless nature and clear fame 
Of the princess Erminia, your niece. 
I have intruded here thus suddenly. 
Because I hold those base weeds, with tight hand, 
Which now disfigure her fair growing stem, 
Waiting but for your sign to pull them up 
By the dark roots, and leave her palpable, 
To all men's sight, a lady innocent. 
The ignominy of that whisper'd tale 140 

About a midnight gallant, seen to climb 
A window to her chamber neighbour'd near, 
I will from her turn off, and put the load 
On the right shoulders ; on that wretch's head. 
Who, by close stratagems, did save herself, 
Chiefly by shifting to this lady's room 
A rope-ladder for false witness. 

Ludolph. Most atrocious ! 

Otho. Ethelbert, proceed. 

Ethelhert. With sad lips I shall : 

For, in the healing of one wound, I fear 
To make a greater. His young highness here 150 
To-day was married. 

Ludolph. Good. 

Ethelbert. Would it were good ! 

Yet why do I delay to spread abroad 
The names of those two vipers, from whose jaw 



SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 311 

A deadly breath went forth to taint and blast 
This guileless lady ? 

OtJio. Abbot, speak their names. 

Ethelbert. A minute first. It cannot be — but 
may 
I ask, great judge, if you to-day have put 
A letter by unread ? 

OtJio. Does 't end in this ? 

Conrad. Out with their names ! 

Ethelbert. Bold sinner, say you so ? 

Ludolph. Out, hideous monk ! 

Otho. Confess, or by the wheel — 

Ethelbert. My evidence cannot be far away ; 161 
And, though it never come, be on my head 
The crime of passing an attaint upon 
The slanderers of this virgin, 

Ludolph. Speak aloud ! 

Ethelbert. Auranthe, and her brother there. 

Conrad. Amaze ! 

Ludolph. Throw them from the windows ! 

Otho. Do what you will ! 

Ludolph. What shall I do with them ? 
Something of quick dispatch, for should she hear, 
My soft Auranthe, her sweet mercy would 
Prevail against my fury. Damned priest ! 170 

What swift death wilt thou die ? As to the lady, 
I touch her not. 

Ethelbert. Illustrious Otho, stay ! 

An ample store of misery thou hast, 
Choke not the granary of thy noble mind 
With more bad bitter grain, too difficult 
A cud for the repentance of a man 
Gray-growing. To thee only I appeal, 
Not to thy noble son, whose y easting youth 
Will clear itself, and crystal turn again. 
A young man's heart, by Heaven's blessing, is 180 
A wide world, where a thousand new-born hopes 
Empurple fresh the melancholy blood : 



312 DRAMAS ACT iii 

But an old man's is narrow, tenantless 

Of hopes, and stuff'd witli many memories, 

Which, being pleasant, ease the heavy pulse — 

Painful, clog up and stagnate. Weigh this matter 

Even as a miser balances his coin ; 

And, in the name of mercy, give command 

That your knight Albert be brought here before 

you. 
He will expound this riddle ; he will show 190 

A noon-day proof of bad Auranthe's guilt, 

Otho. Let Albert straight be summon'd. 

[^Exit one of the Nobles. 

LudolpJi. Impossible ! 

I cannot doubt — I will not — no — to doubt 
Is to be ashes ! — wither'd up to death ! 

Otho. My gentle Ludolph, harbour not a fear ; 
You do yourself much wrong. 

Imdolph. O, wretched dolt ! 

Now, when my foot is almost on thy neck. 
Wilt thou infuriate me ? Proof ! Thou fool ! 
Why wilt thou tease impossibility 
With such a thick-skull'd persevering suit ? 200 

Fanatic obstinacy ! Prodigy ! 
Monster of folly ! Ghost of a turn'd brain ! 
You puzzle me, — you haunt me, — when I dream 
Of you my brain will split ! Bold sorcerer ! 
Juggler ! May I come near you ? On my soul 
I know not whether to pity, curse, or laugh. 

Enter Albert, and the Nobleman. 
Here, Albert, this old phantom wants a proof ! 
Give him his proof ! A camel's load of proofs ! 

Otho. Albert, I speak to you as to a man 
Whose words once utter'd pass like current gold ; 210 
And therefore fit to calmly put a close 
To this brief tempest. Do you stand possess'd 
Of any proof against the honourableness 
Of Lady Auranthe, our new-spoused daughter ? 



SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 313 

Albert. You chill me with astonishment. How 's 
this ? 
My liege, what proof should I have 'gainst a fame 
Impossible of slur ? [Otho rises. 

Erminia. O wickedness 1 

Ethelhert. Deluded monarch, 't is a cruel lie. 

Otho. Peace, rebel-priest ! 

Conrad. Insult beyond credence ! 220 

Erminia. Almost a dream ! 

Ludolph. We have awaked from ! 

A foolish dream that from my brow hath wrung 
A wrathful dew. O folly ! why did I 
So act the lion with this silly gnat ? 
Let them depart. Lady Erminia ! 
I ever grieved for you, as who did not ? 
But now you have, with such a brazen front, 
So most maliciously, so madly striven 
To dazzle the soft moon, when tenderest clouds 
Should be unloop'd around to curtain her ; 
I leave you to the desert of the world 230 

Almost with pleasure. Let them be set free 
For me ! I take no personal revenge 
More than against a nightmare, which a man 
Forgets in the new dawn. {Exit Ludolph. 

Otho. Still in extremes ! No, they must not be 
loose. 

Ethelhert. Albert, I must suspect thee of a crime 
So fiendish — 

Otho. Fear'st thou not my fury, monk ? 

Conrad, be they in your safe custody 
Till we determine some fit punishment. 240 

It is so mad a deed, I must reflect 
And question them in private ; for perhaps. 
By patient scrutiny, we may discover 
Whether they merit death, or should be placed 
In care of the physicians. 

[Exeunt Otho and Nobles, Ai,be,rt following. 

Conrad. My guards, ho 1 



314 DRAMAS act hi 

Erminia. Albert, wilt thou follow there ? 
Wilt thou creep dastardly behind his back, 
And shrink away from a weak woman's eye ? 
Turn, thou court- Janus ! thou forgett'st thyself; 
Here is the duke, waiting with open arms. 

Enter Guards. 
To thank thee ; here congratulate each other ; 250 
Wring hands : embrace ; and swear how lucky 

't was 
That I, by happy chance, hit the right man 
Of all the world to trust in. 

Albert. Trust ! to me ! 

Conrad {aside). He is the sole one in this mystery. 

Erminia. Well, I give up, and save my prayers 
for Heaven ! 
You, who could do this deed, would ne'er relent, 
Though, at my words, the hollow prison-vaults 
Would groan for pity. 

Conrad. Manacle them both ! 

Ethelbert. I know it — it must be — I see it all 1 
Albert, thou art the minion ! 

Erminia. Ah ! too plain — 260 

Conrad. Silence ! Gag up their mouths ! I cannot 
bear 
More of this brawling. That the Emperor 
Had placed you in some other custody ! 
Bring them away. [Exeuiit all but Albert. 

Albert. Though my name perish from the book of 
honour, 
Almost before the recent ink is dry, 
And be no more remember'd after death, 
Than any drummer's in the muster-roll ; 
Yet shall I season high my sudden fall 
With triumph o'er that evil-witted duke ! 270 

He shall feel what it is to have the hand 
Of a man drowning, on his hateful throat. 



SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 315 

Enter Gersa and Sigifred. 

Oersa. What discord is at ferment in this house ? 

Sigifred. We are without con j ecture ; not a soul 
We met could answer any certainty. 

Oersa. Young Ludolph, like a fiery arrow, shot 
By us. 

Sigifred. The Emperor, with cross'd arms, in 
thought. 

Gersa. In one room music, in another sadness, 
Perplexity every where ! 

Albert. A trifle more ! 

Follow ; your presences will much avail 280 

To tune our jan-ed spirits. I '11 explain. \_Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

Scene I. — Auranthe's Apartment 

AuRANTHE and Conrad discovered. 

Conrad. Well, well, I know what ugly j eopardy 
We are caged in ; you need not pester that 
Into my ears. Pr'ythee, let me be spared 
A foolish tongue, that I may bethink me 
Of remedies with some deliberation. 
You cannot doubt but 't is in Albert's power 
To crush or save us ? 

Auranthe. No, I cannot doubt. 

He has, assure yourself, by some strange means. 
My secret ; which I ever hid from him. 
Knowing his mawkish honesty. 

Conrad. Cursed slave ! 10 

Auranthe. Ay, I could almost curse him now my- 
self. 
Wretched impediment ! Evil genius ! 
A glue upon my wings, that cannot spread, 
When they should span the provinces ! A snake, 
A scorpion, sprawling on the first gold step. 
Conducting to the throne, high canopied. 



3i6 DRAMAS act iv 

Conrad. You would not hear my counsel, when 
his life 
Might have been trodden out, all sure and hush'd ; 
Now the dull animal forsooth must be 
Intreated, managed ! When can you contrive 20 
The interview he demands ? 

Auranthe. As speedily 

It must be done as my bribed woman can 
Unseen conduct him to me ; but I fear 
'T will be impossible, while the broad day 
Comes through the panes with persecuting glare. 
Me thinks, if 't now were night I could intrigue 
With darkness, bring the stars to second me, 
And settle all this trouble. 

Conrad. Nonsense ! Child ! 

See him immediately ; why not now ? 

Auranthe. Do you forget that even the senseless 
door-posts 30 

Are on the watch and gape through all the house ? 
How many whisperers there are about, 
Hungry for evidence to ruin me : 
Men I have spurn'd, and women I have taunted ? 
Besides, the foolish prince sends, minute whiles, 
His pages — so they tell me — to inquire 
After my health, intreating, if I please, 
To see me. 

Conrad. Well, suppose this Albert here ; 
What is your power with him ? 

Auranthe. He should be 

My echo, my taught parrot ! but I fear 40 

He will be cur enough to bark at me ; 
Have his own say ; read me some silly screed 
'Bout shame and pity. 

Conrad. What will you do then ? 

Auranthe. What I shall do, I know not ; what I 
would 
Cannot be done ; for see, this chamber-floor 



SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 317 

Will not yield to the pick-axe and the spade, — 
Here is no quiet depth of hollow ground. 

Conrad. Sister, you have grown sensible and wise, 
Seconding, ere I speak it, what is now, 
I hope, resolved between us. 

AurantTu. Say, what is 't ? 50 

Conrad. You need not be his sexton too ; a man 
May carry that with him shall make him die 
Elsewhere, — give that to him ; pretend the while 
You will to-morrow succumb to his wishes, 
Be what they may, and send him from the Castle 
On some fool's errand : let his latest groan 
Frighten the wolves ! 

Auranthe. Alas ! he must not die ! 

Conrad. Would you were both hearsed up in sti- 
fling lead ! 
Detested — 

Auranthe. Conrad, hold ! I would not bear 
The little thunder of your fretful tongue, 60 

Tho' I alone were taken in these toils, 
And you could free me ; but remember, sir. 
You live alone in my security : 
So keep your wits at work, for your own sake, 
Not mine, and be more mannerly. 

Conrad. Thou wasp ! 

If my domains were emptied of these folk. 
And I had thee to starve — 

Auranthe. O, marvellous ! 

But, Conrad, now be gone ; the Host is look'd for; 
Cringe to the Emperor, entertain the Lords, 
And, do ye mind, above all things, proclaim 70 

My sickness, with a brother's sadden'd eye, 
Condoling with Prince Ludolph. In fit time 
Return to me. 

Conrad. I leave you to your thoughts. [Exit. 

Auranthe (sola). Down, down, proud temper ! 
down, Auranthe's pride ! 



3i8 DRAMAS act iv 

Why do I anger him when I should kneel ? 
Conrad ! Albert ! help ! help ! What can I do ? 

wretched woman ! lost, wreck'd, swallow'd up, 
Accursed, blasted ! O, thou golden Crown, 
Orbing along the serene firmament 

Of a wide empire, like a glowing moon ; 80 

And thou, bright sceptre ! lustrous in my eyes, — 

There — as the fabled fair Hesperian tree, 

Bearing a fruit more precious ! graceful thing, 

Delicate, godlike, magic ! must I leave 

Thee to melt in the visionary air, 

Ere, by one grasp, this common hand is made 

Imperial ? I do not know the time 

When I have wept for sorrow ; but methinks 

1 could now sit upon the ground, and shed 

Tears, tears of misery ! O, the heavy day ! 90 

How shall I bear my life till Albert comes ? 

Ludolph ! Erminia ? Proofs ! O happy day ! 

Bring me some mourning weeds, that I may 'tire 

Myself, as fits one wailing her own death : 

Cut off these curls, and brand this lily hand. 

And throw these jewels from my loathing sight, — 

Fetch me a missal, and a string of beads, — 

A cup of bitter'd water, and a crust, — 

I will confess, O holy Abbot ! — How ! 

What is this ? Auranthe ! thou fool, dolt, 100 

Whimpering idiot ! up ! up ! and quell ! 

I am safe ! Coward ! why am I in fear ? 

Albert ! he cannot stickle, chew the cud 

In such a fine extreme, — impossible ! 

Who knocks ? [Goes to the door, listens, and opens it. 

Enter Albert. 
Albert, I have been waiting for you here 
With such an aching heart, such swooning throbs 
On my poor brain, such cruel — cruel sorrow. 
That I should claim your pity ! Art not well ? 
Albert. Yes, lady, well. 



SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 319 

Auranthe. You look not so, alas! 

But pale, as if you brought some heavy news. m 

Albert. You know full well what makes me look 
so pale. 

j^urantJie. No ! Do I ? Surely I am still to learn 
Some horror ; all I know, this present, is 
I am near hustled to a dangerous gulf, 
Which you can save me from, — and therefore safe, 
So trusting in thy love ; that should not make 
Thee pale, my Albert. 

Albert. It doth make me freeze. 

Auranthe. Why should it, love ? 

Albert. You should not ask me that, 

But make your own heart monitor, and save 120 

Me the great pain of telling. You must know. 

Auranthe. Something has vext you, Albert. 
There are times 
When simplest things put on a sombre cast ; 
A melancholy mood will haunt a man, 
Until most easy matters take the shape 
Of unachievable tasks ; small rivulets 
Then seem impassable. 

Albert. Do not cheat yourself 

With hope that gloss of words, or suppliant action. 
Or tears, or ravings, or self-threaten'd death, 
Can alter my resolve. 

Auranthe. You make me tremble ; 130 

Not so much at your threats, as at your voice, 
Untuned, and harsh, and barren of all love. 

Albert. You suffocate me! Stop this devil's 
parley. 
And listen to me ; know me once for all. 

Auranthe. I thought I did. Alas ! I am de- 
ceived. 

Albert. No, you are not deceived. You took me 
for 
A man detesting all inhuman crime ; 
And therefore kept from me your demon's plot 



320 DRAMAS act iv 

Against Erminia. Silent ? Be so still ; 

For ever ! Speak no more ; but hear my words, 140 

Thy fate. Your safety I have bought to-day 

By blazoning a lie, which in the dawn 

I '11 expiate with truth. 

Auranthe. O cruel traitor ! 

Albert. For I would not set eyes upon thy shame ; 
I would not see thee dragg'd to death by the hair, 
Penanced, and taunted on a scaffolding ! 
To-night, upon the skirts of the blind wood 
That blackens northward of these horrid towers, 
I wait for you with horses. Choose your fate. 
Farewell ! 150 

Auranthe. Albert, you jest ; I'm sure you must. 
You, an ambitious Soldier! I, a Queen, 
One who could say, — here, rule these Provinces ! 
Take tribute from those cities for thyself ! 
Empty these armouries, these treasuries, 
Muster thy warlike thousands at a nod ! 
Go ! Conquer Italy ! 

Albert. Auranthe, you have made 

The whole world chaff to me. Your doom is fix'd. 

AurantJie. Out, villain ! dastard ! 

Albert. Look there to the door ! 

Who is it ? 

Auranthe. Conrad, traitor! 

Albert. Let him in. 

Enter Conrad. 
Do not affect amazement, hypocrite, 160 

At seeing me in this chamber. 

Conrad. Auranthe ? 

Albert. Talk not with eyes, but speak your curses 
out 
Against me, who would sooner crush and grind 
A brace of toads, than league with them t' oppress 
An innocent lady, gull an Emperor, 
More generous to me than autumn sun 
To ripening harvests. 



SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 321 

Auranthe. No more insult, sir ! 

Albert. Ay, clutch your scabbard ; but, for pru- 
dence sake, 
Draw not the sword ; 't would make an uproar, 

Duke, 
You would not hear the end of. At nightfall 170 
Your lady sister, if I guess aright, 
Will leave this busy castle. You had best 
Take farewell too of worldly vanities. 

Conrad. Vassal ! 

Albert. To-morrow, when the Emperor sends 

For loving Conrad, see you fawn on him. 
Good even ! 

Auranthe. You '11 be seen ! 

Albert. See the coast clear then. 

Auranthe {as he goes). Remorseless Albert ! Cruel, 
cruel wretch ! {She lets him out. 

Conrad. So, we must lick the dust ? 

Auranthe. I follow him. 

Conrad. How ? Where ? The plan of your 
escape ? 

Auranthe. He waits 
For me with horses by the forest-side, 180 

Northward. 

Conrad. Good, good ! he dies. You go, say you ? 

Auranthe. Perforce. 

Conrad. Be speedy, darkness 1 Till that comes, 
Friends keep you company ! [Exit. 

Auranthe. And you ! And you ! 

And all men ! Vanish ! 

[Beti7'es to an inner apartment. 

Scene II. — An Apart7nent m the Castle 

Enter Ludolph and a Page. 
Page. Still very sick, my lord ; but now I went, 
Knowing my duty to so good a Prince ; 
And there her women, in a mournful throng, 



322 DRAMAS ACT iv 

Stood in the passage whispering ; if any 

Mov'd, 't was with careful steps, and hush'd as 

death : 
They bade me stop. 

Ludolph. Good fellow, once again 

Make soft inquiry ; pr'ythee, be not stay'd 
By any hindrance, but with gentlest force 
Break through her weeping servants, till thou com'st 
E'en to her chamber door, and there, fair boy — lo 
If with thy mother's milk thou hast suck'd in 
Any divine eloquence — woo her ears 
With plaints for me, more tender than the voice 
Of dying Echo, echoed. 

Page. Kindest master ! 

To know thee sad thus, will unloose my tongue 
In mournful syllables. Let but my words reach 
Her ears, and she shall take them coupled with 
Moans from my heart, and sighs not counterfeit. 
May I speed better ! \^Exit Page. 

Ludolph {solus). Auranthe! My Life ! 
Long have I loved thee, yet till now not loved : 20 
Remembering, as I do, hard-hearted times 
When I had heard e'en of thy death perhaps, 
And thoughtless, suffer'd thee to pass alone 
Into Elysium ! — now I follow thee 
A substance or a shadow, wheresoe'er 
Thou leadest me, — whether thy white feet press. 
With pleasant weight, the amorous-aching earth, 
Or thro' the air thou pioneerest me, 
A shade ! Yet sadly I predestinate ! 
O unbenignest Love, why wilt thou let 30 

Darkness steal out upon the sleepy world 
So wearily ; as if night's chariot- wheels 
Were clogg'd in some thick cloud ? O, changeful 

Love, 
Let not her steeds with drowsy -footed pace 
Pass the high stars, before sweet embassage 
Comes from the pillow'd beauty of that fair 



SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 323 

Completion of all delicate Nature's wit ! 

Pout her faint lips anew with rubious health ; 

And, with thine infant fingers, lift the fringe 

Of her sick eyelids ; that those eyes may glow 40 

With wooing light upon me, ere the Morn 

Peers with disrelish, gray, barren, and cold ! 

Enter Gersa and Courtiers. 
Otho calls me his Lion — should I blush 
To be so tamed ? so — 

Gersa. Do me the courtesy, 

Gentlemen, to pass on. 

\st Knight. We are your servants. 

[Exeimt Courtiers. 

Imdolph. It seems then, Sir, you have found out 
the man 
You would confer with ; — me ? 

Gersa. If I break not 

Too much upon your thoughtful mood, I will 
Claim a brief while your patience. 

LudolpTi. For what cause 

Soe'er, I shall be honour'd. 

Gersa. I not less. so 

LudolpJi. What may it be ? No trifle can take 
place 
Of such deliberate prologue, serious 'haviour, 
But, be it what it may, I cannot fail 
To listen with no common interest ; 
For though so new your presence is to me, 
I have a soldier's friendship for your fame. 
Please you explain. 

Gersa. As thus : — for, pardon me, 

I cannot in plain terms grossly assault 
A noble nature ; and would faintly sketch 
What your quick apprehension will fill up ; 60 

So finely I esteem you. 

Ludolph. I attend. 

Gersa. Your generous father, most illustrious 
Otho, 



324 DRAMAS act iv 

Sits in the banquet-room among his chiefs ; 
His wine is bitter, for you are not there ; 
His eyes are fix'd still on the open doors, 
And ev'ry passer in he frowns upon, 
Seeing no Ludolph comes. 

Ludolph. I do neglect — 

Gersa. And for your absence may I guess the 
cause ? 

Ludolph. Stay there ! No — guess ? More 
princely you must be 
Than to make guesses at me. 'T is enough. 70 

I 'm sorry I can hear no more. 

Oersa. And I 

As grieved to force it on you so abrupt ; 
Yet, one day, you must know a grief, whose sting 
Will sharpen more the longer 't is conceal'd. 

lALdolpJi. Say it at once. Sir ! dead — dead — is 
she dead ? 

Oersa. Mine is a cruel task : she is not dead. 
And would, for your ,sake, she were innocent — 

Ludolph. Thou liest ! Thou amazest me beyond 
All scope of thought, convulsest my heart's blood 
To deadly churning ! Gersa, you are young, 80 

As I am ; let me observe you, face to face ; 
Not gray-brow'd like the poisonous Ethelbert, 
No rheumed eyes, no furrowing of age, 
No wrinkles, where all vices nestle in 
Like crannied vermin, — no ! but fresh and young, 
And hopeful featured. Ha ! by Heaven you weep 
Tears, human tears ! Do you repent you then 
Of a cursed torturer's office ? Why shouldst join — 
Tell me, the league of devils ? Confess — confess — 
The Lie ! 

Oersa. Lie ! — but begone all ceremonious points 
Of honour battailous ! I could not turn 91 

My wrath against thee for the orbed world. 

Lvdolph. Your wrath, weak boy? Tremble at 
mine, unless 



SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 325 

Retraction follow close upon the heels 

Of that late stounding insult ! Why has my sword 

Not done already a sheer judgment on thee ? 

Despair, or eat thy words ! Why, thou wast nigh 

Whimpering away my reason ! Hark ye. Sir, 

It is no secret, that Erminia, 

Erminia, Sir, was hidden in your tent ; 100 

bless'd asylum ! Comfortable home ! 
Begone ! I pity thee ; thou art a gull, 
Erminia's last new puppet ? 

Oersa. Furious fire ! 

Thou mak'st me boil as hot as thou canst flame ! 
And in thy teeth I give thee back the lie ! 
Thou liest ! Thou, Auranthe's fool ! A wittol — 

Ludolph. Look ! look at this bright sword : 
There is no part of it, to the very hilt, 
But shall indulge itself about thine heart ! 
Draw ! but remember thou must cower thy plumes, 
As yesterday the Arab made thee stoop — m 

Oersa. Patience ! Not here ; I would not spill 
thy blood 
Here, underneath this roof where Otho breathes, — 
Thy father, — almost mine. 

I/udolph. O faltering coward ! 

Be-enter Page. 

Stay, stay ; here is one I have half a word with. 
Well — What ails thee, child ? 

Page. My lord ! 

Ludolph. Good fellow ! 

Page. They are fled ! 

Ludolph. They ! Who ? 

Page. When anxiously 

1 hasten' d back, your grieving messenger, 

I found the stairs all dark, the lamps extinct, 
And not a foot or whisper to be heard. 120 

I thought her dead, and on the lowest step 
Sat listening ; when presently came by 



326 DRAMAS act v 

Two muffled up, — one sighing heavily, 
The other cursing low, whose voice I knew 
For the Duke Conrad's. Close I follow'd them 
Thro' the dark ways they chose to the open air ; 
And, as I follow'd, heard my lady speak. 

Ludolph. Thy life answers the truth ! 

Page. The chamber's empty ! 

Ludolph. As I will be of mercy ! So, at last. 
This nail is in my temples ! 

Gersa. Be calm in this. 130 

Ludolph. I am. 

Gersa. And Albert too has disappear'd ; 

Ere I met you, I sought him everywhere ; 
You would not hearken. 

Ludolph. Which way went they, boy ? 

Gersa. I '11 hunt with you. 

Ludolph. No, no, no. My senses are 

Still whole. I have survived. My arm is strong — 
My appetite sharp — for revenge ! I '11 no sharer 
In my feast ; my injury is all my own, 
And so is my revenge, my lawful chattels ! 
Terrier, ferret them out ! Burn — burn the witch ! 
Trace me their footsteps ! Away ! [^Exeunt. 

ACT V 

Scene I. — A part of the Forest 

Enter Conrad and Auranthe. 
Auranthe. Go no further; not a step more. 
Thou art 
A master-plague in the midst of miseries. 
Go, — I fear thee ! I tremble every limb. 
Who never shook before. There 's moody death 
In thy resolved looks ! Yes, I could kneel 
To pray thee far away ! Conrad, go ! go ! — 
There ! yonder underneath the boughs I see 
Our horses ! 



SCENE I OTHO THE GREAT 327 

Conrad. Ay, and the man. 

Auranthe. Yes, he is there. 

Go, go — no blood ! no blood ! — go, gentle Conrad! 

Conrad. Farewell ! 

Auranthe. Farewell ! For this Heaven pardon 
you ! ]^Exit Auranthe. 

Conrad. If he survive one hour, then may I die 
In unimagined tortures, or breathe through 12 

A long life in the foulest sink o' the world ! 
He dies ! 'T is well she do not advertise 
The caitiff of the cold steel at his back. 

Enter Ludolph and Page. 
Ladolpli. Miss'd the way, boy ? Say not that on 

your peril ! 
Page. Indeed, indeed I cannot trace them further. 
Ludolph. Must I stop here ? Here solitary die ! 
Stifled beneath the thick oppressive shade 
Of these dull boughs, — this oven of dark thick- 
ets, — 20 
Silent, — without revenge ? — pshaw ! — bitter 

end, — 
A bitter death — a suffocating death, — 
A gnawing — silent — deadly, quiet death ! 
Escaped ? — fled ? — vanish' d ? melted into air ? 
She 's gone ! I cannot clutch her ! no revenge ! 
A muffled death, ensnared in horrid silence! 
Suck'd to my grave amid a dreamy calm 1 
O, where is that illustrious noise of war, 
To smother up this sound of labouring breath, 
This rustle of the trees ! 

[Auranthe shrieks at a distance. 
Page. My lord, a noise ! 30 

This way — hark ! 

Ludolph. Yes, yes ! A hope ! A music ! 

A glorious clamour ! How I live again ! 

{Exeunt. 



328 DRAMAS ACT v 

Scene II. — Another part of the Forest 
Enter Albert {wounded). 
Albert. O ! for enough life to support me on 
To Otho's feet ! 

Enter Ludolph. 

Ludolph. Thrice villanous, stay there ! 

Tell me where that detested woman is, 
Or this is through thee ! 

Albert. My good Prince, with me 

The sword has done its worst ; not without worst 
Done to another, — Conrad has it home — 
I see you know it all — 

Ludolph. Where is his sister ? 

Enter Auranthe. 

Auranthe. Albert ! 

Ludolph. Ha ! There ! there ! — He is the para- 
mour ! — 
There — hug him — dying ! O, thou innocence, 
Shrine him and comfort him at his last gasp. lo 

Kiss down his eyelids ! Was he not thy love ? 
Wilt thou forsake him at his latest hour ? 
Keep fearful and aloof from his last gaze , 
His most uneasy moments, when cold death 
Stands with the door ajar to let him in ? 

Albert. O that that door with hollow slam would 
close 
Upon me sudden, for I cannot meet. 
In all the unknown chambers of the dead, 
Such horrors — 

Ludolph. Auranthe ! what can he mean ? 
What horrors ! Is it not a joyous time ? 20 

Am I not married to a paragon 
' Of personal beauty and untainted soul ? ' 
A blushing fair-eyed purity ? A sylph, 
Whose snowy timid hand has never sinn'd 



SCENE II OTHO THE GREAT 329 

Beyond a flower pluck'd, white as itself ? 
Albert, you do insult my bride — your mistress — 
To talk of horrors on our wedding-night ! 

Albert. Alas ! poor Prince, I would you knew my 
heart ! 
'T is not so guilty — 

Ludolph. Hear, he pleads not guilty ! 

You are not ? or, if so, what matters it ? 
You have escaped me, free as the dusk air, 30 

Hid in the forest, safe from my revenge ; 
I cannot catch you ! You should laugh at me, 
Poor cheated Ludolph ! Make the forest hiss 
With j eers at me ! You tremble ; faint at once. 
You will come to again. O cockatrice, 
I have you ! Whither wander those fair eyes 
To entice the Devil to your help, that he 
May change you to a spider, so to crawl 
Into some cranny to escape my wrath ? 40 

Albert. Sometimes the counsel of a dying man 
Doth operate quietly when his breath is gone : 
Disjoin those hands — part — part — do not destroy 
Eacb other — forget her ! — Our miseries 
Are equal shared, and mercy is — 

Ludolph. A boQji 

When one can compass it. Auranthe, try 
Your oratory ; your breath is not so hitch'd. 
Ay, stare for help ! [Albert groans and dies. 

There goes a spotted soul 
Howling in vain along the hollow night ! 49 

Hear him ! He calls you — sweet Auranthe, come ! 

Auranthe. Kill me ! 

Ludolph. No ! What, upon our marriage-night ! 
The earth would shudder at so foul a deed ! 
A fair bride ! A sweet bride ! An innocent bride ! 
No ! we must revel it, as 't is in use 
In times of delicate brilliant ceremony : 
Come, let me lead you to our halls again ! 
Nay, linger not ; make no resistance, sweet ; — 



330 



DRAMAS ACT V 



Will you ? Ah, wretch, th(3u canst not, for I have 

The strength of twenty lions 'gainst a lamb ! 

Now — one adieu for Albert ! — Come away ! 60 



Scene III. — An inner Court in the Castle 

Enter Sigifred, Gonfred, and Theodore, meeting. 

\st Knight. Was ever such a night ? 

Sigifred. What horrors more ? 

Things unbelieved one hour, so strange they are, 
The next hour stamps with credit. 

1st Knight. Your last news ? 

Gonfred. After the Page's story of the death 
Of Albert and Duke Conrad ? 

Sigifred. And the return 

Of Ludolph with the Princess. 

Oonfred. No more, save 

Prince Gersa's freeing Abbot Ethelbert, 
And the sweet lady, fair Erminia, 
From prison. 

\st Knight. Where are they now? Hast yet 
heard ? 

Gonfred.* With the sad Emperor they are closeted ; 
I saw the three pass slowly up the stairs, 
The lady weeping, the old Abbot cowl'd. 

Sigifred. What next? 

1st Knight. I ache to think on't. 

Gonfred. 'T is with fate. 

1st Knight. One while these proud towers are 
hush'd as death. 

Gonfred. The next our poor Prince fills the 
arched rooms 
With ghastly ravings. 

Sigifred. I do fear his brain. 

Gonfred. I will see more. Bear you so stout a 
heart ? [^Exeunt into the Castle. 



SCENE IV OTHO THE GREAT 331 



Scene IV. — A Cabinet, opening towards a terrace 

Otho, Erminia, Ethelbert, and a Physician, 
discovered. 

Otho. O, my poor boy ! My son ! My son ! My 
Ludolph ! 
Have ye no comfort for me, ye physicians 
Of the weak body and soul ? 

Ethelbert. 'T is not in medicine, 

Either of heaven or earth, to cure, unless 
Fit time be chosen to administer. 

Otho. A kind forbearance, holy Abbot. Come, 
Erminia ; here, sit by me, gentle girl ; 
Give me thy hand ; hast thou forgiven me ? 

Erminia. Would I were with the saints to pray 
for you ! 

Otho. Why will ye keep me from my darling 
child ? 10 

Physician. Forgive me, but he must not see thy 
face. 

Otho. Is then a father's countenance a Gorgon ? 
Hath it not comfort in it ? Would it not 
Console my poor boy, cheer him, help his spir- 
its ? 
Let me embrace him ; let me speak to him ; 
I will ! Who hinders me ? Who 's Emperor ? 

Physician. You may not. Sire; 'twould over- 
whelm him quite. 
He is so full of grief and passionate wrath ; 
Too heavy a sigh would kill him, or do worse. 
He must be saved by fine contrivances ; 20 

And, most especially, we must keep clear 
Out of his sight a father whom he loves ; 
His heart is full, it can contain no more, 
And do its ruddy office. 

Ethelbert. Sage advice ; 

We must endeavour how to ease and slacken 



332 DRAMAS act v 

The tight-wound energies of his despair, 
Not make them tenser. 

Otho. Enough ! I hear, I hear ; 

Yet you were about to advise more, — I listen. 

Et?ielbert. This learned doctor will agree with me, 
That not in the smallest point should he be thwarted, 
Or gainsaid by one word ; his very motions, 31 

Nods, becks, and hints, should be obey'd with care. 
Even on the moment : so his troubled mind 
May cure itself. 

Physician. There are no other means. 

Otho. Open the door ; let 's hear if all is quiet. 

Physician. Beseech you, Sire, forbear. 

Erminia. Do, do. 

Otho. I command ! 

Open it straight ; — hush ! — quiet ! — my lost boy ! 
My miserable child ! 

Ludolph {indistinctly without). Fill, fill my goblet, 
— here 's a health ! 

Erminia. O, close the door ! 

Otho. Let, let me hear his voice ; this cannot 
last: 
And fain would I catch up his dying words, 40 

Though my own knell they be ! This cannot last ! 
O let me catch his voice — for lo ! I hear 
This silence whisper me that he is dead ! 
It is so ! Gersa ? 

Enter Gersa. 

Physician. Say, how fares the prince ? 

Gersa. More calm ; his features are less wild and 
flush'd ; 
Once he complained of weariness. 

Physician. Indeed ! 

'T is good, — 't is good ; let him but fall asleep, 
That saves him. 

Otho. Gersa, watch him like a child ; 

Ward him from harm, — and bring me better news! 



SCENE V OTHO THE GREAT 333 

Pliydcian. Humour him to the height. I fear to 
go ; 50 

For should he catch a glimpse of my dull garb, 
It might affright him, fill him with suspicion 
That we believe him sick, which must not be. 
Gersa. I will invent what soothing means I can. 

{Exit Gersa. 
Physician. This should cheer up your highness ; 
weariness 
Is a good symptom, and most favourable ; 
It gives me pleasant hopes. Please you, walk forth 
Upon the terrace ; the refreshing air 
Will blow one half of your sad doubts away. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene V. — A Banqueting Hall., brilliantly illuminated, 
and set forth with all costly magjtijicence, with sup- 
per-tables laden with services of gold attd silver. A 
door in the back scene, guarded by two Soldiers. 
Lords, Ladies, Knights, Gentlemen, etc., whispering 
sadly, and ranging themselves ; part entering and 
part discovered. 

\st Knight. Grievously are we tantalized, one and 
all; 
Sway'd here and there, commanded to and fro, 
As though we were the shadows of a sleep. 
And link'd to a dreaming fancy. What do we 
here? 
Qonfred. I am no seer ; you know we must obey 
The prince from A to Z, though it should be 
To set the place in flames. I pray, hast heard 
Where the most wicked Princess is ? 

\8t Knight. There, sir, 

In the next room ; have you remark'd those two 
Stout soldiers posted at the door ? 

Oonfred. For what ? 10 

{They whisper. 
\st Lady. How ghast a train ! 



334 DRAMAS act v 

2d Lady. Sure this should be some splendid 

burial, 
\st Lady. What fearful whispering ! See, see, — 

Gersa there ! 

Enter Gersa. 

Oersa. Put on your brightest looks ; smile if you 
can ; 
Behave as all were happy ; keep your eyes 
From the least watch upon him ; if he speaks 
To any one, answer collectedly, 
Without surprise, his questions, howe'er strange. 
Do this to the utmost — though, alas ! with me 
The remedy grows hopeless ! Here he comes, — 20 
Observe what I have said — show no surprise. 

Enter Ludolph, followed by Sigipred and Page. 

Ludolph. A splendid company! rare beauties 
here ! 
I should have Orphean lips, and Plato's fancy, 
Amphion's utterance, toned with his lyre, 
Or the deep key of Jove's sonorous mouth. 
To give fit salutation. Methought I heard, 
As I came in, some whispers — what of that ? 
'T is natural men should whisper ; at the kiss 
Of Psyche given by Love, there was a buzz 
Among the gods ! — and silence is as natural. 30 

These draperies are fine, and, being a mortal, 
I should desire no better ; yet, in truth, 
There must be some superior costliness, 
Some wider-domed high magnificence ! 
I would have, as a mortal I may not, 
Hangings of heaven's clouds, purple and gold, 
Slung from the spheres ; gauzes of silver mist, 
Loop'd up with cords of twisted wreathed light, 
And tassel'd round with weeping meteors ! 
These pendent lamps and chandeliers are bright 40 
As earthly fires from dull dross can be cleansed ; 
Yet could my eyes drink up intenser beams 



SCENE V OTHO THE GREAT 335 

Undazzled — this is darkness — when I close 

These lids, I see far fiercer brilliances, — 

Skies full of splendid moons, and shooting stars, 

And spouting exhalations, diamond fires. 

And panting fountains quivering with deep glows ! 

Yes — this is dark — is it not dark ? 

Sigifred. My Lord, 

'T is late ; the lights of festival are ever 
Quench'd in the morn. so 

Ludolph. 'T is not to-morrow then ? 

Sigifred. 'T is early dawn. 

Oersa. Indeed full time we slept : 

Say you so, Prince ? 

Ludolph. I say I quarrel' d with you ; 

We did not tilt each other — that 's a blessing, — 
Good gods ! no innocent blood upon my head ! 

Sigifred. Retire, Gersa ! 

Ludolph. There should be three more here ; 

For two of them, they stay away perhaps, 
Being gloomy-minded, haters of fair revels, — 
They know their own thoughts best. 

As for the third. 
Deep blue eyes, semi-shaded in white lids, 
Finish'd with lashes fine for more soft shade, 60 

Completed by her twin-arch'd ebon-brows ; 
White temples, of exactest elegance, 
Of even mould, felicitous and smooth ; 
Cheeks fashion'd tenderly on either side. 
So perfect, so divine, that our poor eyes 
Are dazzled with the sweet proportioning. 
And wonder that 't is so — the magic chance ! 
Her nostrils, small, fragrant, fairy-delicate ; 
Her lips — I swear no human bones e'er wore 
So taking a disguise ; — you shall behold her ! 70 
We '11 have her presently ; ay, you shall see her, 
And wonder at her, friends, she is so fair ; 
She is the world's chief jewel, and, by heaven, 
She 's mine by right of marriage ! — she is mine ! 



336 DRAMAS act v 

Patience, good people, in fit time I send 
A summoner, — she will obey my call, 
Being a wife most mild and dutiful. 
First I would hear what music is prepared 
To herald and receive her ; let me hear ! 

Sigifred, Bid the musicians soothe him tenderly. 80 
\^A soft strain of Music. 

Ludolph. Ye have none better? No, I am con- 
tent ; 
'T is a rich sobbing melody, with reliefs 
Full and majestic ; it is well enough. 
And will be sweeter, when you see her pace 
Sweeping into this presence, glistened o'er 
With emptied caskets, and her train upheld 
By ladies, habited in robes of lawn. 
Sprinkled with golden crescents, others bright 
In silks, with spangles shower'd, and bow'd to 
By Duchesses and pearled Margravines ! 90 

Sad, that the fairest creature of the earth — 
I pray yovi mind me not — 't is sad, I say, 
That the extremest beauty of the world 
Should so entrench herself away from me, 
Behind a barrier of engender'd guilt ! 

2d Lady. Ah ! what a moan ! 

1st Knight. Most piteous indeed ! 

Ludolph. She shall be brought before this com- 
pany. 
And then — then — 

\st Lady. He muses. 

Oersa. O, Fortune, where will this end ? 

Sigifred. I guess his purpose ! Indeed he must 
not have 
That pestilence brought in, — that cannot be, 100 
There we must stop him. 

Oersa. I am lost ! Hush, hush ! 

He is about to rave again. 

Ludolph. A barrier of guilt ! I was the fool I 

She was the cheater ! Who 's the cheater now, 



SCENE V OTHO THE GREAT 337 

And who the fool ? The entrapp'd, the caged, fool. 
The bird-limed raven ? She shall croak to death 
Secure ! Methinks I have her in my fist, 
To crush her with my heel ! Wait, wait ! I marvel 
My father keeps away. Good friend — ah ! Sigi- 

fred! 
Do bring him to me, — and Erminia no 

I fain would see before I sleep — and Ethelbert, 
That he may bless me, as I know he will, 
Though I have cursed him. 

Sigifred. Bather suffer me 

To lead you to them. 

Ludolph. No, excuse me, — no ! 

The day is not quite done. Go, bring them hither, 

\^Exit Sigifred. 
Certes, a father's smile should, like sun light, 
Slant on my sheafed harvest of ripe bliss, 
Besides, I thirst to pledge my lovely bride 
In a deep goblet : let me see — what wine ? 
The strong Iberian juice, or mellow Greek ? 120 

Or pale Calabrian ? Or the Tuscan grape ? 
Or of old Etna's pulpy wine-presses, 
Black stain' d with the fat vintage, as it were 
The purple slaughter-house, where Bacchus' self 
Prick'd his own swollen veins ? Where is my page? 

Page. Here, here ! 

Ludolph. Be ready to obey me ; anon thou shalt 
Bear a soft message for me ; for the hour 
Draws near when I must make a winding up 
Of bridal mysteries — a fine-spun vengeance ! 
Carve it on my tomb, that, when I rest beneath, 130 
Men shall confess this Prince was gull'd and cheated, 
But from the ashes of disgrace he rose 
More than a fiery phoenix, and did burn 
His ignominy up in purging fires ! 
Did I not send. Sir, but a moment past, 
For my Father ? 

Oersa. You did. 



338 DRAMAS act v 

lAidolph. Perhaps 't would be 

Much better he came not. 

Oersa. He enters now ! 



Enter Otho, Erminia, Ethelbert, Sigipred, and 

Physician. 

Ludolpli. O thou good man, against whose sacred 
head 
I was a mad conspirator, chiefly too, 
For the sake of my fair newly wedded wife, 140 

Now to be punish'd, do not look so sad ! 
Those charitable eyes will thaw my heart, 
Those tears will wash away a just resolve, 
A verdict ten times sworn ! Awake — awake — 
Put on a judge's brow, and use a tongue 
Made iron-stern by habit ! Thou shalt see 
A deed to be applauded, 'scribed in gold ! 
Join a loud voice to mine, and so denounce 
What I alone will execute. 

Otho. Dear son. 

What is it ? By your father's love, I sue 
That it be nothing merciless ! 150 

Ludolph. To that demon ? 

Not so ! No ! She is in temple-stall 
Being garnish'd for the sacrifice, and I, 
The Priest of Justice, will immolate her 
Upon the altar of wrath. She stings me through ! — 
Even as the worm doth feed upon the nut, 
So she, a scorpion, preys upon my brain ! 
I feel her gnawing here ! Let her but vanish. 
Then, father, I will lead your legions forth, 
Compact in steeled squares, and speared files, 160 
And bid our trumpets speak a fell rebuke 
To nations drows'd in peace ! 

Otho. To-morrow, son, 

Be your word law ; forget to-day — 

iMdolph. I will 



SCENE V OTHO THE GREAT 339 

When I have finish'd it. Now, — now, I 'm pight, 
Tight-footed for the deed ! 

Erminia. Alas ! Alas ! 

Ludolph. What angel's voice is that ? Erminia 1 
Ah ! gentlest creature, whose sweet innocence 
Was almost murder' d ; I am penitent ; 
Wilt thou forgive me ? And thou, holy man. 
Good Ethelbert, shall I die in peace with you ? 170 

Erminia, Die, my lord ! 

Ludolph. I feel it possible. 

OtJio. Physician ? 

Physician. I fear me he is past my skill. 

Otho. Not so ! 

Ludolph. I see it — I see it — I have been wander- 
ing ! 
Half mad — not right here — I forget my pur- 
pose. 
Bestir — bestir — Auranthe ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
Youngster ! Page ! go bid them drag her to me ! 
Obey ! This shall finish it ! [^Draws a dagger. 

Otho. Oh, my son ! my son ! 

Sigifred. This must not be — stop there ! 

Ludolph. Am I obey'd ? 

A little talk with her — no harm — haste ! haste ! 

[Exit Page. 
Set her before me — never fear I can strike. • 180 

Several Voices. My Lord ! My Lord ! 

Gersa. Good Prince 1 

Ludolph. Why do ye trouble me ? out — out — 
away ! 
There she is ! take that ! and that ! no, no — 
That 's not well done. — Where is she ? 

The doors open. Enter Page. Several women are 
seen grouped ahout Auranthe in the inner-room. 
Page. Alas ! My Lord, my Lord ! they cannot 
move her ! 

Her arms are stiff, — her fingers clench'd and cold I 



L 



340 DRAMAS act i 

Ludolph. She 's dead 1 

[Staggers and falls into their arms. 
Ethelhert. Take away the dagger. 
Gersa. Softly ; so 1 

OtTw. Thank God for that ! 

Sigifred. It could not harm him now. 

Oersa. No ! — brief be his anguish ! 
iMdolpJi. She's gone! lam content — Nobles, 
good night ! 190 

We are all weary — faint — set ope the doors — 
I will to bed ! — To-morrow — [Dies. 

The Curtain falls. 



KING STEPHEN 
A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT 
ACT I 
Scene I. — Field of Battle 

Alarum. Enter King Stephen, Knights^ and 

Soldiers. 



ien. If shame can on a soldier's vein-swoll'n 
front 
Spread deeper crimson than the battle's toil. 
Blush in your casing helmets ! for see, see ! 
Yonder my chivalry, my pride of war, 
Wrench'd with an iron hand from firm array, 
Are routed loose about the plashy meads, 
Of honour forfeit. O, that my known voice 
Could reach your dastard ears, and fright you more ! 
Fly, cowards, fly ! Glocester is at your backs ! 
Throw your slack bridles o'er the flurried manes, 
Ply well the rowell with faint trembling heels, 10 
Scampering to death at last ! 

1st Knight. The enemy 

Bears his flaunt standard close upon their rear. 



SCENE II KING STEPHEN 341 

2d Knight. Sure of a bloody prey, seeing the fens 
Will swamp them girth-deep. 

Stephen. Over head and ears, 

No matter ! 'T is a gallant enemy ; 
How like a comet he goes streaming on. 
But we must plague him in the flank, — hey, friends? 
We are well breathed, — follow ! 

Enter Earl Baldwin and Soldiers, as defeated. 

Stephen. De Red vers ! 

What is the monstrous bugbear that can fright 20 
Baldwin ? 

Baldwin. No scare-crow, but the fortunate star 
Of boisterous Chester, whose fell truncheon now 
Points level to the goal of victory. 
This way he comes, and if you would maintain 
Your person unaffronted by vile odds. 
Take horse, my Lord. 

Stephen. And which way spur for life ? 

Now I thank Heaven I am in the toils, 
That soldiers may bear witness how my arm 
Can burst the meshes. Not the eagle more 
Loves to beat up against a tyrannous blast, 30 

Than I to meet the torrent of my foes. 
This is a brag, — be 't so, — but if I fall, 
Carve it upon my 'scutcheon'd sepulchre. 
On, fellow soldiers ! Earl of Redvers, back ! 
Not twenty Earls of Chester shall brow-beat 
The diadem. [Exeunt. Alarum. 

Scene II. — Another part of the Field 

Trumpets sounding a Victory. Enter Glocester, 
Knights, and Forces. 
Glocester. Now may we lift our bruised visors up, 
And take the flattering freshness of the air, 
While the wide din of battle dies away 
Into times past, yet to be echoed sure 
In the silent pages of our chroniclers. 



342 DRAMAS act i 

Ist Knight. Will Stephen's death be mark'd there, 

my good Lord, 
Or that we gave him lodging in yon towers ? 

Glocester. Fain would I know the great usurper's 

fate. 

Enter two Captains severally. 

1st Captain. My Lord ! 

2d Captain. Most noble Earl ! 

1st Captain. The King — 

2d Captain. The Empress greets — 

Olocester. What of the King ? 

1st Captain. He sole and lone maintains 

A hopeless bustle 'mid our swarming arms, 12 

And with a nimble savageness attacks, 
Escapes, makes fiercer onset, then anew 
Eludes death, giving death to most that dare 
Trespass within the circuit of his sword ! 
He must by this have fallen. Baldwin is taken ; 
And for the Duke of Bretagne, like a stag 
He flies, for the Welsh beagles to hunt down. 19 

God save the Empress ! 

Olocester. Now our dreaded Queen : 

What message from her Highness ? 

M Captain. Royal Maud 

From the throng'd towers of Lincoln hath look'd 

down, 
Like Pallas from the walls of Ilion, 
And seen her enemies havock'd at her feet. 
She greets most noble Glocester from her heart, 
Entreating him, his captains, and brave knights, 
To grace a banquet. The high city gates 
Are envious which shall see your triumph pass ; 
The streets are full of music. 

Enter 2d Knight. 

Olocester. Whence come you ? 

2d Knight. From Stephen, my good Prince, — 

Stephen ! Stephen ! 30 



SCENE III KING STEPHEN 343 

Glocester. Why do you make such echoing of his 

name ? 
2d Knight. Because I think, my lord, he is no 
man, 
But a fierce demon, 'nointed safe from wounds, 
And misbaptized with a Christian name. 

Glocester. A mighty soldier ! — Does he still hold 

out? 
M Knight. He shames our victory. His valour 
still 
Keeps elbow-room amid our eager swords. 
And holds our bladed falchions all aloof — 
His gleaming battle-axe being slaughter- sick, 
Smote on the morion of a Flemish knight, 40 

Broke short in his hand ; upon the which he flung 
The heft away with such a vengeful force, 
It paunch'd the Earl of Chester's horse, who then 
Spleen-hearted came in full career at him. 

Glocester. Did no one take him at a vantage then? 
2d Knight. Three then with tiger leap upon him 
flew. 
Whom with his sword swift-drawn and nimbly held. 
He stung away again, and stood to breathe. 
Smiling. Anon upon him rush'd once more 
A throng of foes, and in this renew'd strife, 50 

My sword met his and snapp'd off at the hilt. 

Glocester. Come, lead me to this man — and let us 
move 
In silence, not insulting his sad doom 
With clamorous trumpets. To the Empress bear 
My salutation as befits the time. 

[Exeunt Glocester and Forces. 

Scene III. — T/ie Field of Battle 

Enter Stephen unarmed. 

Stephen. Another sword ! And what if I could 
seize 



344 DRAMAS act i 

One from Bellona's gleaming armoury, 
Or choose the fairest of her sheafed spears ! 
Where are my enemies ? Here, close at hand, 
Here come the testy brood. O, for a sword 1 
I 'm faint — a biting sword ! A noble sword ! 
A hedge-stake — or a ponderous stone to hurl 
With brawny vengeance, like the labourer Cain. 
Come on ! Farewell my kingdom, and all hail 
Thou superb, plumed, and helmeted renown, lo 

All hail — I would not truck this brilliant day 
To rule in Pylos with a Nestor's beard — 
Come on ! 

Enter De Kaims and Knights, etc. 

Be Kaims. Is 't madness or a hunger after death 
That makes thee thus unarm'd throw taunts at 

us V — 
Yield, Stephen, or my sword's point dips in 
The gloomy current of a traitor's heart. 

Stephen. Do it, De Kaims, I will not budge an 
inch. 

De Kaims. Yes, of thy madness thou shalt take 
the meed. 

Stephen. Darest thou ? 

De Kaims. How dare, against a man disarm'd ? 

Stephen. What weapons has the lion but himself ? 
Come not near me, De Kaims, for by the price 21 
Of all the glory I have won this day, 
Being a king, I will not yield alive 
To any but the second man of the realm, 
Robert of Glocester. 

De Kaims. Thou shalt vail to me. 

Stephen. Shall I, when I have sworn against it, 
sir? 
Thou think' st it brave to take a breathing king, 
That, on a court-day bow'd to haughty Maud, 
The awed presence-chamber may be bold 
To whisper, there 's the man who took alive 30 



SCENE IV KING STEPHEN 345 

Stephen — me — prisoner. Certes, De Kaims, 
The ambition is a noble one. 

De Kaims. 'T is true, 

And, Stephen, I must compass it. 

Stephen. No, no, 

Do not tempt me to throttle you on the gorge. 
Or with my gauntlet crush your hollow breast. 
Just when your knighthood is grown ripe and 

full 
For lordship. 

A Soldier. Is an honest yeoman's spear 
Of no use at a need ? Take that. 

Steplien. Ah, dastard ! 

De Kaims. What, you are vulnerable ! my pris- 
oner ! 

Stephen. No, not yet. I disclaim it, and demand 
Death as a sovereign right unto a king 41 

Who 'sdains to yield to any but his peer. 
If not in title, yet in noble deeds. 
The Earl of Glocester. Stab to the hilt, De Kaims, 
For I will never by mean hands be led 
From this so famous field. Do you hear ! Be 
quick ! 

Trumpets. Enter the Earl of Chester, and 
Knights. 

Scene IV. — A Presence Chamber. Queen Maud in 
a Chair of State, the Earls ^Glocester and Ches- 
ter, Lords, Attendants 

Maud. Glocester, no more: I will behold that 
Boulogne : 
Set him before me. Not for the poor sake 
Of regal pomp and a vain-glorious hour, 
As thou with wary speech, yet near enough, 
Hast hinted. 

Glocester. Faithful counsel have I given ; 
If wary, for your Highness' benefit. 



346 DRAMAS act i 

Maud. The heavens forbid that I should not think 
so, 
For by thy valour have I won this realm, 
Which by thy wisdom I will ever keep. 
To sage advisers let me ever bend lo 

A meek attentive ear, so that they treat 
Of the wide kingdom's rule and government, 
Not trenching on our actions personal. 
Advised, not school'd, I would be ; and henceforth 
Spoken to in clear, plain, and open terms, 
Not side-ways sermon'd at. 

Glocester. Then in plain terms, 

Once more for the fallen king — 

Maud. Your pardon. Brother, 

I would no more of that ; for, as I said, 
'Tis not for worldly pomp I wish to see 
The rebel, but as dooming judge to give 20 

A sentence something worthy of his guilt. 

Glocester. If 't must be so, I '11 bring him to your 
presence. \^Exit Glocester. 

Maud. A meaner summoner might do as well — 
My Lord of Chester, is 't true what I hear 
Of Stephen of Boulogne, our prisoner, 
That he, as a fit penance for his crimes, 
Eats wholesome, sweet, and palatable food 
Off Glocester's golden dishes — drinks pure wine. 
Lodges soft ? 

Chester. More than that, my gracious Queen, 

Has anger'd me. The noble Earl, methinks, 30 

Full soldier as he is, and without peer 
In counsel, dreams too much among his books. 
It may read well, but sure 'tis out of date 
To play the Alexander with Darius. 

Maud. Truth ! I think so. By Heavens it shall 
not last ! 

Chester. It would amaze your Highness now to 
mark 



SCENE IV KING STEPHEN 347 

How Glocester overstrains his courtesy 

To that crime-loving rebel, that Boulogne — 

3faud. That ingrate ! 

Chester. For whose vast ingratitude 

To our late sovereign lord, your noble sire, 40 

The generous Earl condoles in his mishaps, 
And with a sort of lackeying friendliness, 
Talks off the mighty frowning from his brow 
Woos him to hold a duet in a smile, 
Or, if it please him, play an hour at chess — 

Maud. A perjured slave! 

Chester. And for his perjury, 

Glocester has fit rewards — nay, I believe, 
He sets his bustling household's wits at work 
For flatteries to ease this Stephen's hours, 
And make a heaven of his purgatory ; 50 

Adorning bondage with the pleasant gloss 
Of feasts and music, and all idle shows 
Of indoor pageantry ; while siren whispers, 
Predestined for his ear, 'scape as half-check'd 
From lips the courtliest and the rubiest, 
Of all the realm, admiring of his deeds. 

Maud. A frost upon his summer ! 

Chester. A queen's nod 

Can make his June December. Here he comes. 



348 THE EVE OF ST. MARK 

THE EVE OF ST. MARK 

A FRAGMENT 

Upon a Sabbath-day it fell ; 
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell, 
That call'd the folk to evening prayer ; 
The city streets were clean and fair 
From wholesome drench of April rains ; 
And, on the western window panes, 
The chilly sunset faintly told 
Of unmatured green valleys cold. 
Of the green thorny bloomless hedge, 
Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge, 
Of primroses by shelter'd rills. 
And daisies on the aguish hills. 
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell : 
The silent streets were crowded well 
With staid and pious companies. 
Warm from their fireside orat'ries ; 
And moving, with demurest air. 
To even-song, and vesper prayer. 
Each arched porch, and entry low, 
Was fill'd with patient folk and slow. 
With whispers hush, and shuffling feet, 
While play'd the organ loud and sweet. 

The bells had ceased, the prayers begun, 
And Bertha had not yet half done 
A curious volume, patch' d and torn, 
That all day long, from earliest morn. 
Had taken captive her two eyes, 
Among its golden broideries ; 
Perplex'd her with a thousand things, — 
The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings, 
Martyrs in a fiery blaze, 



THE EVE OF ST. MARK 349 

Azure saints and silver rays, 
Moses' breastplate and the seven, 
Candlesticks John saw in Heaven, 
The winged Lion of Saint Mark, 
And the Covenantal Ark, 
With its many mysteries. 
Cherubim and golden mice. 

Bertha was a maiden fair, 

Dwelling in th' old Minster-square ; 40 

From her fireside she could see. 

Sidelong, its rich antiquity, 

Far as the Bishop's garden wall ; 

Where sycamores and elm-trees tall, 

Full-leaved, the forest had outstript. 

By no sharp north- wind ever nipt, 

So shelter'd by the mighty pile. 

Bertha arose, and read awhile, 

With forehead 'gainst the window-pane. 

Again she tried, and then again, 50 

Until the dusk eve left her dark 

Upon the legend of St, Mark. 

From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin. 

She lifted up her soft warm chin, 

With aching neck and swimming eyes, 

And dazed with saintly imag'ries. 

All was gloom, and silent all, 

Save now and then the still foot-fall 

Of one returning homewards late, 

Past the echoing minster-gate. 60 

The clamorous daws, that all the day 

Above tree-tops and towers play. 

Pair by pair had gone to rest. 

Each in its ancient belfry-nest. 

Where asleep they fall betimes. 

To music and the drowsy chimes. 



350 THE EVE OF ST. MARK 

All was silent, all was gloom, 

Abroad and in the homely room : 

Down she sat, poor cheated soul ! 

And struck a lamp from the dismal coal ; 70 

Lean'd forward, with bright drooping hair 

And slant book, full against the glare. 

Her shadow, in uneasy guise, 

Hover'd about, a giant size, 

On ceiling-beam and old oak chair, 

The parrot's cage, and panel-square ; 

And the warm angled winter-screen, 

On which were many monsters seen, 

Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mice, 

And legless birds of Paradise, 80 

Macaw, and tender Avadavat, 

And silken-f urr 'd Angora cat. 

Untired she read, her shadow still 

Glower' d about, as it would fill 

The room with wildest forms and shades, 

As though some ghostly queen of spades 

Had come to mock behind her back, 

And dance, and ruffle her garments black. 

Untired she read the legend page, 

Of holy Mark, from youth to age, 90 

On land, on sea, in pagan chains. 

Rejoicing for his many pains. 

Sometimes the learned eremite. 

With golden star, or dagger bright, 

Referr'd to pious poesies 

Written in smallest crow-quill size 

Beneath the text ; and thus the rhyme 

Was parcel!' d out from time to time : 

' Als writith he of swevenis, 

Men han beforne they wake in bliss, 100 

Whanne that hir friendes thinke him bound 
In crimped shroude farre under grounde ; 
And how a litling child mote be 



THE EVE OF ST. MARK 35J 

A saint er its nativitie, 

Gif that the modre (God her blesse !) 

Kepen in solitarinesse, 

And kissen devoute the holy croce, 

Of Goddes love, and Sathan's force, — 

He writith ; and thinges many mo 

Of swiche thinges I may not show. n. 

Bot I must tellen verilie 

Somdel of Sainte Cicilie, 

And chieflie what he auctorethe 

Of Saints Markis life and dethe : ' 

At length her constant eyelids come 
Upon the fervent martyrdom ; 
Then lastly to his holy shrine, 
Exalt amid the tapers' shine 
At Venice, — 



352 HYPERION 

HYPERION 

A FRAGMENT 

BOOK I 

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 

Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, 

Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star, 

Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone. 

Still as the silence round about his lair ; 

Forest on forest hung about his head 

Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there. 

Not so much life as on a summer's day 

Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, 

But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. k 

A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more 

By reason of his fallen divinity 

Spreading a shade : the Naiad 'mid her reeds 

Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips. 

Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went. 
No further than to where his feet had stray 'd, 
And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground 
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, 
Unsceptred ; and his realmless eyes were closed ; 
While his bow'd head seem'd list'ning to the Earth, 
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 21 

It seem'd no force could wake him from his place : 
But there came one, who with a kindred hand 
Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low 
With reverence, though to one who knew it not. 
She was a Goddess of the infant world ; 
By her in stature the tall Amazon 
Had stood a pigmy's height : she would have ta'en 
Achilles by the hair and bent his neck ; 



i 



BOOK FIRST 353 

Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel. 30 

Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, 

Pedestal'd haply in a palace-court, 

When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore. 

But oh ! how unlike marble was that face ; 

How beautiful, if sorrow had not made 

Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self. 

There was a listening fear in her regard, 

As if calamity had but begun ; 

As if the vanward clouds of evil days 

Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 40 

Was with its stored thunder labouring up. 

One hand she press'd upon that aching spot 

Where beats the human heart, as if just there, 

Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain: 

The other upon Saturn's bended neck 

She laid, and to the level of his ear 

Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake 

In solemn tenour and deep organ tone : 

Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue 

Would come in these like accents ; O how frail 50 

To that large utterance of the early gods ! 

'Saturn, look up! — though wherefore, poor old 

King? 
I have no comfort for thee, no not one : 
I cannot say, " O wherefore sleepest thou?" 
For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth 
Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God ; 
And ocean too, with all its solemn noise, 
Has from thy sceptre pass'd ; and all the air 
Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. 
Thy thunder, conscious of the new command, 60 
Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 
And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands 
Scorches and burns our once serene domain. 
O aching time ! O moments big as years ! 
All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth. 
And press it so upon our weary griefs 



354 HYPERION 

That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 

Saturn, sleep on : — O thoughtless, why did I 

Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude ? 

Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes ? 70 

Saturn, sleep on ! while at thy feet I weep.' 

As when, upon a tranced summer-night, 
Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, 
Tall oaks, branch- charmed by the earnest stars, 
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir, 
Save from one gradual solitary gust 
Which comes upon the silence, and dies off, 
As if the ebbing air had but one wave : 
So came these words and went ; the while in tears 
She touch'd her fair large forehead to the ground, 80 
Just where her falling hair might be outspread 
A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 
One moon, with alteration slow, had shed 
Her silver seasons four upon the night. 
And still these two were postured motionless, 
Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern ; 
The frozen God still couchant on the earth, 
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet : 
Until at length old Saturn lifted up 
His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone, 90 

And all the gloom and sorrow of the place. 
And that fair kneeling Goddess ; and then spake, 
As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard 
Shook horrid with such aspen-malady : 
' O tender spouse of gold Hyperion, 
Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face ; 
Look up, and let me see our doom in it ; 
Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape 
Is Saturn's ; tell me, if thou hear'st the voice 
Of Saturn ; tell me, if this wrinkling brow, 100 

Naked and bare of its great diadem, 
Peers like the front of Saturn. Who had power 
To make me desolate ? whence came the strength ? 



BOOK FIRST 355 

How was it nurtured to such bursting forth, 

While Fate seem'd strangled in my nervous grasp ? 

But it is so ; and I am smother' d up, 

And buried from all godlike exercise 

Of influence benign on planets pale, 

Of admonitions to the winds and seas, 

Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting, no 

And all those acts which Deity supreme 

Doth ease its heart of love in. — I am gone 

Away from my own bosom : I have left 

My strong identity, my real self. 

Somewhere between the throne, and where I sit 

Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, search ! 

Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round 

Upon all space : space starr'd, and lorn of light; 

Space region'd with life-air, and barren void ; 

Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell. 120 

Search, Thea, search ! and tell me if thou seest 

A certain shape or shadow, making way 

With wings or chariot fierce to repossess 

A heaven he lost erewhile : it must — it must 

Be of ripe progress — Saturn must be King. 

Yes, there must be a golden victory ; 

There must be Gods thrown down, and trumpets 

blown 
Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival 
Upon the gold clouds metropolitan. 
Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir 130 

Of strings in hollow shells ; and there shall be 
Beautiful things made new, for the surprise 
Of the sky-children ; I will give command : 
Thea ! Thea ! Thea ! where is Saturn ! 

This passion lifted him upon his feet. 
And made his hands to struggle in the air, 
His Druid locks to shake and ooze with sweat, 
His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease. 
He stood, and heard not Thea's sobbing deep ; 



356 HYPERION 

A little time, and then again he snatch'd 140 

Utterance thus : — ' But cannot I create ? 

Cannot I form ? Cannot I fashion forth 

Another world, another universe, 

To overbear and crumble this to nought ? 

Where is another chaos ? Where ? ' — That word 

Found way unto Olympus, and made quake 

The rebel three. — Thea was startled up, 

And in her bearing was a sort of hope, 

As thus she quick- voiced spake, yet full of awe. 

' This cheers our fallen house : come to our friends, 

Saturn ! come away, and give them heart ; 151 

1 know the covert, for thence came I hither.' 
Thus brief ; then with beseeching eyes she went 
With backward footing through the shade a space : 
He follow'd, and she turn'd to lead the way 
Through aged boughs, that yielded like the mist 
Which eagles cleave upmounting from their nest. 

Meanwhile in other realms big tears were shed, 
More sorrow like to this, and such like woe, 
Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe : 160 
The Titans fierce, self -hid, or prison-bound 
Groan'd for the old allegiance once more. 
And listen' d in sharp pain for Saturn's voice. 
But one of the whole mammoth-brood still kept 
His sov'reignty, and rule, and majesty ; 
Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire 
Still sat, still snuff'd the incense, teeming up 
From man to the sun's God ; yet unsecm-e : 
For as among us mortals omens drear 
Fright and perplex, so also shudder'd he, 170 

Not at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated screech. 
Or the familiar visiting of one 
Upon the first toll of his passing-bell. 
Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp : 
But horrors, portion' d to a giant nerve, 



BOOK FIRST 357 

Oft made Hyperion ache. His palace bright 
Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold, 
And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks, 
Glared a blood-red through all its thousand courts, 
Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ; i8o 

And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 
Flush'd angerly : while sometimes eagles' wings, 
Unseen before by Gods or wondering men, 
Darken'd the place ; and neighing steeds were heard, 
Not heard before by Gods or wondering men. 
Also, when he would taste the spicy wreaths. 
Of incense breathed aloft from sacred hills, 
Instead of sweets, his ample palate took 
Savour of poisonous brass and metal sick: 
And so, when harbour'd in the sleepy west, 190 

After the full completion of fair day, 
For rest divine upon exalted couch 
And slumber in the arms of melody. 
He paced away the pleasant hours of ease 
With stride colossal, on from hall to hall ; 
While far within each aisle and deep recess, 
His winged minions in close clusters stood, 
Amazed and full of fear ; like anxious men 
Who on wide plains gather in panting troops, 
When earthquakes jar their battlements and tow- 
ers. 200 
Even now while Saturn, roused from icy trance. 
Went step for step with Thea through the woods, 
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear, 
Came slope upon the threshold of the west ; 
Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope 
In smoothest silence, save what solemn tubes, 
Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of sweet 
And wandering sounds, slow -breathed melodies ; 
And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape. 
In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye, 210 
That inlet to severe magnificence 
Stood full blown, for the God to enter in. 



358 HYPERION 

He enter'd, but he enter'd full of wrath, 
His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels, 
And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire, 
That scared away the meek ethereal Hours 
And made their dove- wings tremble. On he flared 
From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault, 
Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light. 
And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades 220 

Until he reach'd the great main cupola ; 
There standing fierce beneath, he stampt his foot. 
And from the basements deep to the high towers 
Jarr'd his own golden region : and before 
The quavering thunder thereupon had ceased, 
His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb, 
To this result : ' O dreams of day and night ! 
O monstrous forms ! O effigies of pain ! 
O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom ! 

lank-ear'd Phantoms of black-weeded pools ! 230 
Why do I know ye ? why have I seen ye ! why 

Is my eternal essence thus distraught 

To see and to behold these horrors new ? 

Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall ? 

Am I to leave this haven of my rest. 

This cradle of my glory, this soft clime, 

This calm luxuriance of blissful light. 

These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes, 

Of all my lucent empire ? It is left 

Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine. 240 

The blaze, the splendour, and the symmetry, 

1 cannot see — but darkness, death and darkness. 
Even here, into my centre of repose. 

The shady visions come to domineer. 

Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp. — 

Fall ! — No, by Tellus and her briny robes! 

Over the fiery frontier of my realms 

I will advance a terrible right arm 

Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel Jove, 

And bid old Saturn take his throne again.' 250 



BOOK FIRST 359 

He spake, and ceased, the while a heavier threat 
Held struggle with his throat, but came not forth ; 
For as in theatres of crowded men 
Hubbub increases more they call out, ' Hush 1 
So at Hyperion's words the Phantoms pale 
Bestirr'd themselves, thrice horrible and cold ; 
And from the mirror' d level where he stood 
A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh. 
At this, through all his bulk an agony 
Crept gradual, from the feet unto the crown, 260 
Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular 
Making slow way, with head and neck convulsed 
From over-strained might. Released, he fled 
To the eastern gates, and full six dewy hours 
Before the dawn in season due should blush. 
He breathed fierce breath against the sleepy por- 
tals, 
Clear'd them of heavy vapours, burst them wide 
Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams. 
The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode 
Each day from east to west the heavens through, 270 
Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds : 
Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and hid, 
But ever and anon the glancing spheres, 
Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure, 
Glow'd through, and wrought upon the muffling 

dark 
Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir deep 
Up to the zenith, — hieroglyphics old. 
Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers 
Then living on the earth, with labouring thought 
Won from the gaze of many centuries : 280 

Now lost, save what we find on remnants huge 
Of stone, or marble swart ; their import gone. 
Their wisdom long since fled. — Two wings this 

orb 
Possess'd for glory, two fair argent wings, 
Ever exalted at the God's approach : 



36o HYPERION 

And now, from forth the gloom their plumes im- 
mense 
Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were ; 
While still the dazzling globe maintain'd eclipse, 
Awaiting for Hyperion's command. 
Fain would he have commanded, fain took throne 
And bid the day begin, if but for change. 291 

He might not : — No, though a primeval God 
The sacred seasons might not be disturb'd. 
Therefore the operations of the dawn 
Stay'd in their birth, even as here 't is told. 
Those silver wings expanded sisterly, 
Eager to sail their orb ; the porches wide 
Open'd upon the dusk demesnes of night ; 
And the bright Titan, phrenzied with new woes, 
Unused to bend, by hard compulsion bent 300 

llis spirit to the sorrow of the time : 
And all along a dismal rack of clouds, 
Upon the boundaries of day and night, 
He stretch' d himself in grief and radiance faint. 
There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars 
Look'd down on him with pity, and the voice 
Of Coelus, from the universal space. 
Thus whisper'd low and solemn in his ear : 
* O brightest of my children dear, earth-born 
And sky-engendered. Son of Mysteries 310 

All unrevealed even to the powers 
Which met at thy creating ; at whose joys 
And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft, 
I, Coelus, wonder, how they came and whence ; 
And at the fruits thereof what shapes they be, 
Distinct, and visible ; symbols divine, 
Manifestations of that beauteous life 
Diffused unseen throughout eternal space : 
Of these new-form'd art thou, oh brightest child ! 
Of these, thy brethren and the Goddesses ! 320 

There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion 
Of son against his sire. I saw him fall, 



BOOK FIRST 361 

I saw my first-born tumbled froDi his throne ! 
To me his arms were spread, to me his voice 
Found way from forth the thunders round his 

head! 
Pale wox I, and in vapours hid my face. 
Art thou, too, near such doom ? vague fear there 

is: 
For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods. 
Divine ye were created, and divine 
In sad demeanour, solemn, undisturb'd, 330 

Unruffled, like high Gods, ye lived and ruled : 
Now I behold in you fear, hope, and wrath ; 
Actions of rage and passion ; even as 
I see them, on the mortal world beneath. 
In men who die. — This is the grief, O Son ! 
Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall ! 
Yet do thou strive ; as thou art capable. 
As thou canst move about, an evident God ; 
And canst oppose to each malignant hour 
Ethereal presence : — I am but a voice ; 340 

My life is but the life of winds and tides, 
No more than winds and tides can I avail : — 
But thou canst. — Be thou therefore in the van 
Of circumstance ; yea, seize the arrow's barb 
Before the tense string murmur. — To the earth ! 
For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his woes. 
Meantime I wi'll keep watch on thy bright sun, 
And of thy seasons be a careful nurse.' — 
Ere half this region- whisper had come down, 
Hyperion arose, and on the stars 350 

Lifted his curved lids, and kept them wide 
Until it ceased ; and still he kept them wide ; 
And still they were the same bright, patient stars. 
Then with a slow incline of his broad breast, 
Like to a diver in the pearly seas, 
Forward he stoop' d over the airy shore. 
And plunged all noiseless into the deep night. 



362 HYPERION 



BOOK II 

Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide wings 

Hyperion slid into the rustled air, 

And Saturn gain'd with Thea that sad place 

Where Cybele and the bruised Titans mourn'd. 

It was a den where no insulting light 

Could glimmer on their tears ; where their own 

groans 
They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar 
Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents hoarse, 
Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where. 
Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that seem'd 10 
Ever as if just rising from a sleep, 
Forehead to forehead held their monstrous horns ; 
And thus in thousand hugest phantasies 
Made a fit roofing to this nest of woe. 
Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon, 
Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge 
Stubborn'd with iron. All were not assembled : 
Some chain'd in torture, and some wandering. 
Coeus, and Gyges, and Briarciis, 
Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion, 20 

With many more, the brawniest in assault, 
Were pent in regions of laborious breath ; 
Dungeon'd in opaque element to keep 
Their clenched teeth still clench'd, and all their 

limbs 
Lock'd up like veins of metal, crampt and screw' d ; 
Without a motion, save of their big hearts 
Heaving in pain, and horribly convulsed 
With sanguine, feverous, boiling gurge of pulse. 
Mnemosyne was straying in the world ; 
Far from her moon had Phoebe wandered ; 30 

And many else were free to roam abroad. 
But for the main, here found they covert drear. 
Scarce images of life, one here, one there, 



BOOK SECOND 363 

Lay vast and edgeways ; like a dismal cirque 

Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor, 

When the chill rain begins at shut of eve, 

In dull November, and their chancel vault, 

The Heaven itself, is blinded throughout night. 

Each one kept shroud, nor to his neighbour gave 

Or word, or look, or action of despair. 40 

Crelis was one ; his ponderous iron mace 

Lay by him, and a shatter'd rib of rock 

Told of his rage, ere he thus sank and pined. 

lapetus another ; in his grasp, 

A serpent's plashy neck ; its barbed tongue 

Squeezed from the gorge, and all its uncurl'd length 

Dead ; and because the creature could not spit 

Its poison in the eyes of conquering Jove. 

Next Cottus : prone he lay, chin uppermost, 

As though in pain : for still upon the flint 50 

He ground severe his skull, with open mouth 

And eyes at horrid working. Nearest him 

Asia, born of most enormous Caf , 

Who cost her mother Tellus keener pangs, 

Though feminine, than any of her sons : 

More thought than woe was in her dusky face, 

For she was prophesying of her glory ; 

And in her wide imagination stood 

Palm-shaded temples, and high rival fanes, 

By Oxus or in Ganges' sacred isles. 60 

Even as Hope upon her anchor leans. 

So leant she, not so fair, upon a tusk 

Shed from the broadest of her elephants. 

Above her, on a crag's uneasy shelve. 

Upon his elbow raised, all prostrate else, 

Shadow'd Enceladus ; once tame and mild 

As grazing ox unworried in the meads ; 

Now tiger-passion'd, lion-thoughted, wroth, 

He meditated, plotted, and even now 

Was hurling mountains in that second war, 70 

Not long delay'd, that scared the younger Gods 



364 HYPERION 

To hide themselves in forms of beast and bird. 
Not far hence Atlas ; and beside him prone 
Phorcus, the sire of Gorgons. Neighbour'd close 
Oceanus, and Tethys, in whose lap 
Sobb'd Clymene among her tangled hair. 
In midst of all lay Themis, at the feet 
Of Ops the queen all clouded round from sight ; 
No shape distinguishable, more than when 
Thick night confounds the pine - tops with the 
clouds : 80 

And many else whose names may not be told. 
For when the Muse's wings are air- ward spread, 
Who shall delay her flight ? And she must chant 
Of Saturn, and his guide, who now had climb'd 
With damp and slippery footing from a depth 
More horrid still. Above a sombre cliff 
Their heads appear'd, and up their stature grew 
Till on the level height their steps found ease : 
Then Thea spread abroad her trembling arms 
Upon the precincts of this nest of pain, 90 

And side-long fix'd her eye on Saturn's face : 
There saw she direst strife ; the supreme God 
At war with all the frailty of grief. 
Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge. 
Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all despair. 
Against these plagues he strove in vain : for Fate 
Had pour'd a mortal oil upon his head, 
A disanointing poison : so that Thea, 
Affrighted, kept her still, and let him pass 
First onwards in, among the fallen tribe. 100 

As with us mortal men, the laden heart 
Is persecuted more, and fever'd more. 
When it is nighing to the mournful house 
Where other hearts are sick of the same bruise ; 
So Saturn, as he walk'd into the midst, 
Felt faint, and would have sunk among the rest, 
But that he met Enceladus's eye, 



BOOK SECOND 365 

"Whose mightiness, and awe of him, at once 
Came like an inspiration ; and he shouted, 109 

' Titans, behold your God ! ' at which some groan'd ; 
Some started on their feet ; some also shouted ; 
Some wept, some wail'd — all bow'd with rever- 
ence ; 
And Ops, uplifting her black folded veil. 
Show'd her pale cheeks, and all her forehead wan, 
Her eyebrows thin and jet, and hollow eyes. 
There is a roaring in the bleak-grown pines 
When Winter lifts his voice ; there is a noise 
Among immortals when a God gives sign. 
With hushing finger, how he means to load 
His tongue with the full weight of utterless thought, 
With thunder, and with music, and with pomp : 121 
Such noise is like the roar of bleak-grown pines ; 
Which, when it ceases in this mountain'd world, 
No other sound succeeds ; but ceasing here. 
Among these fallen, Saturn's voice therefrom 
Grew up like organ, that begins anew 
Its strain, when other harmonies, stopt short, 
Leave the dinn'd air vibrating silverly. 
Thus grew it up : — ' Not in my own sad breast, 
Which is its own great judge and searcher out, 130 
Can I find reason why ye should be thus: 
Not in the legends of the first of days. 
Studied from that old spirit-leaved book 
Which starry Uranus with finger bright 
Saved from the shores of darkness, when the waves 
Low-ebb'd still hid it up in shallow gloom ; — 
And the which book ye know I ever kept 
For my firm-based footstool : — Ah, infirm ! 
Not there, nor in sign, symbol, or portent 
Of element, earth, water, air, and fire, — 140 

At war, at peace, or inter-quarrelling 
One against one, or two, or three, or all 
Each several one against the other three, 
As fire with air loud warring when rain-floods 



366 HYPERION 

Drown both, and press them both against earth's 

face, 
Where, finding sulphur, a quadruple wrath 
Unhinges the poor world ; — not in that strife, 
Wherefrom I take strange lore, and read it deep, 
Can I find reason why ye should be thus : 
No, nowhere can unriddle, though I search, 150 

And pore on nature's universal scroll 
Even to swooning, why ye. Divinities, 
The first-born of all shaped and palpable Gods, 
Should cower beneath what, in comparison, 
Is untremendous might. Yet ye are here, 
O'erwhelm'd, and spurn'd, and batter'd, ye are here ! 
O Titans, shall I say " Arise ! " — Ye groan : 
Shall I say " Crouch ! " — Ye groan. What can I 

then? 
O Heaven wide ! O unseen parent dear ! 
What can I ? Tell me, all ye brethren Gods, 160 
How we can war, how engine our great wrath ! 

speak your counsel now, for Saturn's ear 
Is all a-hunger'd. Thou, Oceanus, 
Ponderest high and deep ; and in thy face 

1 see, astonied, that severe content 

Which comes of thought and musing: give us 
help ! ' 

So ended Saturn ; and the God of the Sea, 
Sophist and Sage, from no Athenian grove, 
But cogitation in his watery shades. 
Arose, with locks not oozy, and began, 170 

In murmurs, which his first-endeavouring tongue 
Caught infant-like from the far-foamed sands. 
' O ye, whom wrath consumes ! who, passion-stung, 
Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies ! 
Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears, 
My voice is not a bellows unto ire. 
Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof 
How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop ; 



BOOK SECOND 367 

And in the proof much comfort will I give, 

If ye will take that comfort in its truth. 180 

We fall by course of Nature's law, not force 

Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, thou 

Has sifted well the atom-universe ; 

But for this reason, that thou art the King, 

And only blind from sheer supremacy, 

One avenue was shaded from thine eyes. 

Through which I wander'd to eternal truth. 

And first, as thou wast not the first of powers. 

So art thou not the last ; it cannot be ; 

Thou art not the beginning nor the end. 190 

From chaos and parental darkness came 

Light, the first fruits of that intestine broil, 

That sullen ferment, which for wondrous ends 

Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour came, 

And with it light, and light engendering 

Upon its own producer, forthwith touch'd 

The whole enormous matter into life. 

Upon that very hour, our parentage. 

The Heavens and the Earth, were manifest : 

Then thou first-born, and we the giant-race, 200 

Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous realms. 

Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 't is pain ; 

O folly ! for to bear all naked truths. 

And to envisage circumstance, all calm, 

That is the top of sovereignty. Mark well ! 

As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far 

Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once chiefs ; 

And as we show beyond that Heaven and Earth 

In form and shape compact and beautiful, 

In will, in action free, companionship, 210 

And thousand other signs of purer life ; 

So on our heels a fresh perfection treads, 

A power more strong in beauty, born of us 

And fated to excel us, as we pass 

In glory that old Darkness : nor are we 

Thereby more conquer'd, than by us the rule 



368 HYPERION 

Of shapeless Chaos. Say, doth the dull soil 

Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed, 

And feedeth still, more comely than itself ? 

Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves ? 220 

Or shall the tree be envious of the dove 

Because it cooeth, and hath snowy wings 

To wander wherewithal and find its joys ? 

We are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs 

Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves, 

But eagles golden-feather'd, who do tower 

Above us in their beauty, and must reign 

In right thereof ; for 'tis the eternal law 

That first in beauty should be first in might : 

Yea, by that law, another race may drive 230 

Our conquerors to mourn as we do now. 

Have ye beheld the young God of the Seas, 

My dispossessor ? Have ye seen his face ? 

Have ye beheld his chariot, foam'd along 

By noble winged creatures he hath made ? 

I saw him on the calmed waters scud. 

With such a glow of beauty in his eyes, 

That it enforced me to bid sad farewell 

To all my empire ; farewell sad I took. 

And hither came, to see how dolorous fate 240 

Had wrought upon ye ; and how I might best 

Give consolation in this woe extreme. 

Receive the truth and let it be your balm.' 

Whether through poz'd conviction, or disdain 
They guarded silence, when Oceanus 
Left murmuring, what deepest thought can tell ? 
But so it was, none answer'd for a space, 
Save one whom none regarded, Clymene : 
And yet she answer'd not, only complain'd, 
With hectic lips, and eyes up-looking mild, 250 

Thus wording timidly among the fierce : 
' O Father, I am here the simplest voice, 
And all my knowledge is that joy is gone. 



BOOK SECOND 369 

And this thing woe crept in among our hearts, 

There to remain forever, as I fear : 

I would not bode of evil, if I thought 

So weak a creature could turn off the help 

Which by just right should come of mighty Gods ; 

Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell 

Of what I heard, and how it made me weep, 260 

And know that we had parted from all hope. 

I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore, 

Where a sweet clime was breathed from a land 

Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and flowers. 

Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief ; 

Too full of joy and soft delicious warmth ; 

So that I felt a movement in my heart 

To chide, and to reproach that solitude 

With songs of misery, music of our woes ; 

And sat me down, and took a mouthed shell 270 

And murmur'd into it, and made melody — 

melody no more ! for while I sang, 

And with poor skill let pass into the breeze 
The dull shell's echo, from a bowery strand 
Just opposite, an island of the sea, 
There came enchantment with the shifting wind, 
That did both drown and keep alive my ears. 

1 threw my shell away upon the sand. 
And a wave fill'd it, as my sense was fiU'd 

With that new blissful golden melody. 280 

A living death was in each gush of sounds. 

Each family of rapturous hurried notes. 

That fell, one after one, yet all at once, 

Like pearl beads dropping sudden from their string : 

And then another, then another strain. 

Each like a dove leaving its olive perch, 

With music wing'd instead of silent plumes. 

To hover round my head, and make me sick 

Of joy and grief at once. Grief overcame. 

And I was stopping up my frantic ears, 290 

When, past all hindrance of my trembling hands. 



370 HYPERION 

A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all tune, 
And still it cried, "Apollo ! young Apollo ! 
The morning-bright Apollo ! young Apollo ! " 
I fled, it foUow'd me, and cried, " Apollo !" 
O Father, and O Brethren, had ye felt 
Those pains of mine ; O Saturn, hadst thou felt, 
Ye would not call this too indulged tongue 
Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be heard.' 

So far her voice flow'd on, like timorous brook 300 
That, lingering along a pebbled coast, 
Doth fear to meet the sea : but sea it met. 
And shudder'd ; for the overwhelming voice 
Of huge Enceladus swallow'd it in wrath : 
The ponderous syllables, like sullen waves 
In the half-glutted hollows of reef-rocks, 
Came booming thus, while still upon his arm 
He lean'd ; not rising, from supreme contempt. 

• Or shall we listen to the over-wise, 

Or to the over- foolish giant, Gods? 310 

Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all 

That rebel Jove's whole armoury were spent. 

Not world on world upon these shoulders piled, 

Could agonize me more than baby-words 

In midst of this dethronement horrible. 

Speak ! roar ! shout ! yell ! ye sleepy Titans all. 

Do ye forget the blows, the buffets vile ? 

Are ye not smitten by a youngling arm ? 

Dost thou forget, sham Monarch of the Waves, 

Thy scalding in the seas ? What ! have I roused 320 

Your spleens with so few simple words as these ? 

O joy ! for now I see ye are not lost : 

O joy ! for now I see a thousand eyes 

Wide-glaring for revenge.' — As this he said, 

He lifted up his stature vast, and stood, 

Still without intermission speaking thus : 

* Now ye are flames, I '11 tell you how to burn, 
And purge the ether of our enemies ; 



BOOK SECOND 371 

How to feed fierce the crooked stings of fire, 

And singe away the swollen clouds of Jove, 330 

Stifling that puny essence in its tent, 

O let him feel the evil he hath done ; 

For though I scorn Oceanus'slore, 

Much pain have I for more than loss of realms : 

The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled ; 

Those days, all innocent of scathing war, 

When all the fair Existences of heaven 

Came open-eyed to guess what we would speak : — 

That was before our brows were taught to frown, 

Before our lips knew else but solemn sounds ; 340 

That was before we knew the winged thing. 

Victory, might be lost, or might be won. 

And be ye mindful that Hyperion, 

Our brightest brother, still is undisgraced — 

Hyperion, lo ! his radiance is here ! ' 

All eyes were on Enceladus's face. 
And they beheld, while still Hyperion's name 
Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks, 
A pallid gleam across his features stern : 
Not savage, for he saw full many a God 350 

Wroth as himself. He look'd upon them all, 
And in each face he saw a gleam of light, 
But splendider in Saturn's, whose hoar locks 
Shone like the bubbling foam about a keel 
When the prow sweeps into a midnight cove. 
In pale and silver silence they remain'd, 
Till suddenly a splendour, like the morn, 
Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps, 
All the sad spaces of oblivion. 

And every gulf, and every chasm old, 360 

And every height, and every sullen depth, 
Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented streams : 
And all the everlasting cataracts. 
And all the headlong torrents far and near, 
Mantled before in darkness and huge shade, 



372 HYPERION 

Now saw the light and made it terrible. 

It was Hyperion : — a granite peak 

His bright feet touch'd, and there he stay'd to view 

The misery his brilliance had betray'd 

To the most hateful seeing of itself. 370 

Golden his hair of short Numidian curl, 

Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade 

In midst of his own brightness, like the bulk 

Of Memnon's image at the set of sun 

To one who travels from the dusking East : 

Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon's harp, 

He utter'd, while his hands contemplative 

He press'd together, and in silence stood. 

Despondence seized again the fallen Gods 

At sight of the dejected King of Day, 380 

And many hid their faces from the light : 

But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes 

Among the brotherhood ; and, at their glare, 

Uprose lapetus, and Creus too, 

And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strode 

To where he tower'd on his eminence. 

There those four shouted forth old Saturn's name ; 

Hyperion from the peak loud answered ' Saturn ! ' 

Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods, 

In whose face was no joy, though all the Gods 390 

Gave from their hollow throats the name of * Saturn ! ' 

BOOK III 

Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace, 

Amazed were those Titans utterly. 

O leave them, Muse ! O leave them to their woes ; 

For thou art weak to sing such tumults dire : 

A solitary sorrow best befits 

Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief. 

Leave them, O Muse ! for thou anon wilt find 

Many a fallen old Divinity 

Wandering in vain about bewildered shores. 



BOOK THIRD 373 

Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp, 10 

Aud not a wind of heaven but will breathe 

In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute ; 

For lo ! 'tis for the Father of all verse. 

Flush everything that hath a vermeil hue, 

Let the rose glow intense and warm the air, 

And let the clouds of even and of morn 

Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills ; 

Let the red wine within the goblet boil, 

Cold as a bubbling well ; let faint-lipp'd shells, 

On sands or in great deeps, vermilion turn 20 

Through all their labyrinths ; and let the maid 

Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surprised. 

Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades, 

Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green. 

And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech. 

In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song, 

And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath the shade : 

Apollo is once more the golden theme ! 

Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun 

Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers ? 30 

Together had he left his mother fair 

And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower, 

And in the morning twilight wandered forth 

Beside the osiers of a rivulet, 

Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale. 

The nightingale had ceased, and a few stars 

Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush 

Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle 

There was no covert, no retired cave 

Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves, 40 

Though scarcely heard in many a green recess. 

He listen'd, and he wept, and his bright tears 

Went trickling down the golden bow he held. 

Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood. 

While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard by 

With solemn step an awful Goddess came, 

And there was purport in her looks for him, 



374 HYPERION 

Which he with eager guess began to read 

Perplex'd, the while melodiously he said : 

' How cam'st thou over the uufooted sea ? 50 

Or hath that antique mien and robed form 

Moved in these vales invisible till now ? 

Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o'er 

The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone 

In cool mid-forest. Surely I have traced 

The rustle of those ample skirts about 

These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers 

Lift up their heads, and still the whisper pass'd. 

Goddess ! I have beheld those eyes before, 

And their eternal calm, and all that face, 60 

Or I have dream'd.' — ' Yes,' said the supreme shape, 

' Thou hast dream'd of me ; and awaking up 

Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side, 

Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all the vast 

Unwearied ear of the whole universe 

Listen'd in pain and pleasure at the birth 

Of such new tuneful wonder. Is 't not strange 

That thou shouldst weep, so gifted? Tell me, 

youth, 
What sorrow thou canst feel ; for I am sad 
When thou dost shed a tear : explain thy griefs 70 
To one who in this lonely isle hath been 
The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life. 
From the young day when first thy infant hand 
Pluck'd witless the weak flowers, till thine arm 
Could bend that bow heroic to all times. 
Show thy heart's secret to an ancient Power 
Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones 
For prophecies of thee, and for the sake 
Of loveliness new-born.' — Apollo then. 
With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes, 80 

Thus answer'd, while his white melodious throat 
Throbb'd with the syllables : — ' Mnemosyne ! 
Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how ; 
Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest ? 



BOOK THIRD 375 

Why should I strive to show what from thy lips 

Would come no mystery ? For me, dark, dark, 

And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes : 

I strive to search wherefore I am so sad, 

Until a melancholy numbs my limbs ; 

And then upon the grass I sit, and moan, 90 

Like one who once had wings. — O why should I 

Feel cursed and thwarted, when the liegeless air 

Yields to my step aspirant ? why should I 

Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet ? 

Goddess benign, point forth some unknown thing : 

Are there not other regions than this isle ? 

What are the stars ? There is the sun, the sun ! 

And the most patient brilliance of the moon ! 

And stars by thousands ! Point me out the way 

To any one particular beauteous star, 100 

And I will flit into it with my lyre, 

And make its silvery splendour pant with bliss. 

I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where is power? 

Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity 

Makes this alarum in the elements. 

While I here idle listen on the shores 

In fearless yet in aching ignorance ? 

O tell me, lonely Goddess, by thy harp, 

That waileth every morn and eventide, 

Tell me why thus I rave, about these groves ! no 

Mute thou remainest — Mute ! yet I can read 

A wondrous lesson in thy silent face : 

Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. 

Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, 

Majesties, sovran voices, agonies. 

Creations and destroyings, all at once 

Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, 

And deify me, as if some blithe wine 

Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, 

And so become immortal.' — Thus the God, 120 

While his enkindled eyes, with level glance 

Beneath his white soft temples, steadfast kept 



376 HYPERION 

Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne. 

Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush 

All the immortal fairness of his limbs : 

Most like the struggle at the gate of death ; 

Or liker still to one who should take leave 

Of pale immortal death, and with a pang 

As hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulse 

Die into life : so young Apollo anguish'd : 130 

His very hair, his golden tresses famed 

Kept undulation round his eager neck. 

During the pain Mnemosyne upheld 

Her arms as one who prophesied. — At length 

Apollo shriek'd ; — and lo ! from all his limbs 

Celestial 



TO AUTUMN 377 

TO AUTUMN 



Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves 
run ; 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
"With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, 
And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease, 

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy 
cells. 



"Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers : 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 

Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 

Or by a cider-press, with patient look. 
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 



Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are 
they? 

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day. 

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 



378 TO AUTUMN 

Among the river-sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 
Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft 
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, 
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 



LINES TO FANNY 379 

VERSES TO FANNY BRAWNE 
SONNET 

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone ! 

Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer 
breast. 
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone, 

Bright eyes, accomplish' d shape, and lang'rous 
waist ! 
Faded the flower and all its budded charms. 

Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes, 
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms. 

Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise! 
Vanish'd unseasonably at shut of eve. 

When the dusk holiday — or holinight — 
Of fragrant-curtain'd love begins to weave 

The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight : 
But, as I 've read love's missal through to-day, 
He '11 let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray. 

LINES TO FANNY 

What can I do to drive away 

Remembrance from my eyes ? for they have seen, 

Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen ! 

Touch has a memory. O say, love, say, 

What can I do to kill it and be free 

In my old liberty ? 

When every fair one that I saw was fair, 

Enough to catch me in but half a snare. 

Not keep me there : 

When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things. 

My muse had wings. 

And ever ready was to take her course 

Whither I bent her force, 



38o VERSES TO FANNY BRAWNE 

Unintellectiial, yet divine to me ; — 
Divine, I say ! — Wliat sea-bird o'er tlie sea 
Is a philosopher the while he goes 
Winging along where the great water throes ? 

How shall I do 

To get anew 
Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more 

Above, above 

The reach of fluttering Love, 
And make him cower lowly while I soar ? 
Shall I gulp wine ? No, that is vulgarism, 
A heresy and schism. 

Foisted into the canon law of love ; — 
No, — wine is only sweet to happy men ; 

More dismal cares 

Seize on me unawares, — 
Where shall I learn to get my piece again ?- 
To banish thoughts of that most hateful land, 
Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand 
Where they were wreck'd and live a wrecked life ; 
That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour, 
Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore, 
Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods ; 
Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods. 
Iced in the great lakes, to afiiict mankind ; 
Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind, 
Would fright a Dryad ; whose harsh herbaged 

meads 
Make lean and lank the starved ox while he feeds ; 
There bad flowers have no scent, birds no sweet 

song. 
And great unerring Nature once seems wrong. 

O, for some sunny spell 

To dissipate the shadows of this hell ! 

Say they are gone, — with the new dawning light 

Steps forth my lady bright 1 



TO FANNY 38] 

O, let me once more rest 

My soul upon that dazzling breast ! 

Let once again these aching arms be placed, 

The tender gaolers of thy waist ! 

And let me feel that warm breath here and there 

To spread a rapture in my very hair, — 

O, the sweetness of the pain ! 

Give me those lips again ! 

Enough ! Enough ! it is enough for me 

To dream of thee ! 



TO FANNY 

I CRY your mercy — pity — love — aye, love ! 

Merciful love that tantalizes not, 
One-thoughted, never- wandering, guileless love, 

Unmask'd, and being seen — without a blot ! 
O ! let me have thee whole, — all — all — be mine ! 

That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest 
Of love, your kiss, — those hands, those eyes divine, 

That warm, white, lucent, million - pleasured 
breast, — 
Yourself — your soul — in pity give me all, 

Withhold no atom's atom, or I die. 
Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall, 

Forget, in the mist of idle misery, 
Life's purposes — the palate of my mind 
Losing its gust, and my ambition blind ! 



382 THE CAP AND BELLS 

THE CAP AND BELLS 

OR, THE JEALOUSIES 

A Faery Tale. Unfinished 



In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool, 

There stood, or hover' d, tremulous in the air, 

A faery city, 'neath the potent rule 

Of Emperor Elfinan ; fam'd ev'rywhere 

For love of mortal women, maidens fair. 

Whose lips were solid, whose soft hands were 

made 
Of a fit mould and beauty, ripe and rare, 
To pamper his slight wooing, warm yet staid : 
He loved girls smooth as shades, but hated a mere 

shade. 



This was a crime forbidden by the law ; 

And all the priesthood of his city wept. 

For ruin and dismay they well foresaw. 

If impious prince no bound or limit kept. 

And faery Zendervester overstept ; 

They wept, he sinn'd, and still he would sin on, 

They dreamt of sin, and he sinn'd while they 

slept ; 
In vain the pulpit thunder'd at the throne, 
Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lampoon. 



Which seeing, his high court of parliament 
Laid a remonstrance at his Highness' feet, 
Praying his royal senses to content 
Themselves with what in faery land was sweet. 
Befitting best that shade with shade should meet 
Whereat, to calm their fears, he promised soon 



THE CAP AND BELLS 383 

From mortal tempters all to make retreat — 
Ay, even on the first of the new moon, 
An immaterial wife to espouse as heaven's boon. 



Meantime he sent a fluttering embassy 
To Pigmio, of Imaus sovereign, 
To half beg, and half demand, respectfully, 
The hand of his fair daughter Bellanaine ; 
An audience had, and speeching done, they gain 
Their point, and bring the weeping bride away ; 
Whom, with but one attendant, safely lain 
Upon their wings, they bore in bright array, 
While little harps were touch'd by many a lyric 
fay. 



As in old pictures tender cherubim 
A child's soul thro' the sapphired canvas bear, 
So, thro' a real heaven, on they swim 
With the sweet princess on her plumaged lair, 
Speed giving to the winds her lustrous hair ; 
And so she journey'd, sleeping or awake, 
Save when, for healthful exercise and air, 
She chose to ' promener a I'aile,' or take 
A pigeon's somerset, for sport or change's sake. 



'Dear Princess, do not whisper me so loud,' 
Quoth Corallina, nurse and confidant, 
' Do not you see there, lurking in a cloud, 
Close at your back, that sly old Craf ticant ? 
He hears a whisper plainer than a rant : 
Dry up your tears, and do not look so blue ; 
He 's Elfinan's great state-spy militant. 
He 's running, lying, flying footman, too — 
Dear mistress, let him have no handle against 
you ! 



384 THE CAP AND BELLS 

VII 

' Show him a mouse's tail, and he will guess, 
With metaphysic swiftness, at the mouse ; 
Show him a garden, and with speed no less, 
He '11 surmise sagely of a dwelling-house, 
And plot, in the same minute, how to chouse 
The owner out of it ; show him a — ' ' Peace ! 
Peace ! nor contrive thy mistress' ire to rouse ! ' 
Return'd the princess, ' my tongue shall not cease 
Till from this hated match I get a free release. 

VIII 

' Ah, beauteous mortal ! ' ' Hush ! ' quoth Cor- 
alline, 
'Really you must not talk of him indeed.' 
* You hush ! ' replied the mistress, with a shine 
Of anger in her eyes, enough to breed 
In stouter hearts than nurse's fear and dread : 
'T was not the glance itself made nursey flinch, 
But of its threat she took the utmost heed ; 
Not liking in her heart an hour-long pinch, 
Or a sharp needle run into her back an inch. 

IX 

So she was silenced, and fair Bellanaine, 
Writhing her little body with ennui, 
Continued to lament and to complain. 
That Fate, cross-purposing, should let her be 
Ravish'd away, far from her dear countree ; 
That all her feelings should be set at nought. 
In trumping up this match so hastily. 
With lowland blood ; and lowland blood she 
thought 
Poison, as every stanch true-born Imaian ought. 

X 

Sorely she grieved, and wetted three or four 
White Provence rose-leaves with her faery tears. 



THE CAP AND BELLS 385 

But not for this cause ; — alas ! she had more 
Bad reasons for her sorrow, as appears 
In the famed memoirs of a thousand years, 
Written by Crafticant, and published 
By Parpaglion and Co., (those sly compeers 
Who raked up ev'ry fact against the dead,) 
In Scarab Street, Panthea, at the Jubal's Head. 



Where, after a long hypercritic howl 
Against the vicious manners of the age. 
He goes on to expose, with heart and soul. 
What vice in this or that year was the rage, 
Backbiting all the world in every page ; 
With special strictures on the horrid crime, 
(Section'd and subsection'd with learning sage,) 
Of faeries stooping on their wings sublime 
To kiss a mortal's lips, when such were in their 
prime. 



Turn to the copious index, you will find 
Somewhere in the column, headed letter B, 
The name of Bellanaine, if you 're not blind ; 
Then pray refer to the text, and you will see 
An article made up of calumny 
Against this highland princess, rating her 
For giving way, so over fashionably. 
To this new-fangled vice, which seems a burr 
Stuck in his moral throat, no coughing e'er could 
stir. 

XIII 

There he says plainly that she loved a man ! 
That she around him flutter'd, flirted, toy'd. 
Before her marriage with great Elfinan ; 
That after marriage too, she never joy'd 
In husband's company, but still employ'd 
Her wits to 'scape away to Angle-land ; 



386 THE CAP AND BELLS 

Where lived the youth, who worried and annoy'd 
Her tender heart, and its warm ardours fann'd 
To such a dreadful blaze, her side would scorch her 
hand. 

XIV 

But let us leave this idle tittle-tattle 
To waiting-maids, and bed-room coteries, 
Nor till fit time against her fame wage battle. 
Poor Elfinan is very ill at ease, 
Let us resume his subject if you please : 
For it may comfort and console him much, 
To rhyme and syllable his miseries ; 
Poor Elfinan ! whose cruel fate was such. 
He sat and cursed a bride he knew he could not 
touch. 

XV 

Soon as (according to his promises) 
The bridal embassy had taken wing. 
And vanish'd, bird-like, o'er the suburb trees. 
The emperor, empierced with the sharp sting 
Of love, retired, vex'd and murmuring 
Like any drone shut from the fair bee-queen, 
Into his cabinet, and there did fling 
His limbs upon the sofa, full of spleen. 
And damn'd his House of Commons, in complete cha- 
grin. 

XVI 

'I'll trounce some of the members,' cried the 

Prince, 
' I '11 put a mark against some rebel names, 
I'll make the Opposition-benches wince, 
I '11 show them very soon, to all their shames. 
What 'tis to smother up a Prince's flames ; 
That ministers should join in it, I own. 
Surprises me ! — they too at these high games! 
Am I an Emperor ? Do I wear a crown ? 
Imperial Elfinan, go hang thyself or drown ! 



THE CAP AND BELLS 387 



XVII 

' I '11 trounce 'em ! — there 's the square-cut chan- 
cellor, 

His son shall never touch that bishopric ; 

And for the nephew of old Palfior, 

I '11 show him that his speeches made me sick, 

And give the colonelcy to Phalaric ; 

The tiptoe marquis, moral and gallant, 

Shall lodge in shabby taverns upon tick ; 

And for the Speaker's second cousin's aunt. 
She sha'n't be maid of honour, — by heaven that she 
sha'n't ! 

XVIII 

T '11 shirk the Duke of A. ; I '11 cut his brother ; 

I '11 give no garter to his eldest son ; 

I won't speak to his sister or his mother ! 

The Viscount B. shall live at cut-and-run ; 

But how in the world can I contrive to stun 

That fellow's voice, which plagues me worse than 

any, 
That stubborn fool, that impudent state-dun. 
Who sets down ev'ry sovereign as a zany, — 
That vulgar commoner. Esquire Biancopany ? 



* Monstrous affair ! Pshaw ! pah ! what ugly 

minx 
Will they fetch from Imaus for my bride ? 
Alas 1 my wearied heart within me sinks, 
To think that I must be so near allied 
To a cold dullard fay, — ah, woe betide ! 
Ah, fairest of all human loveliness ! 
Sweet Bertha ! what crime can it be to glide 
About the fragrant plaitings of thy dress, 
Or kiss thine eye, or count thy locks, tress after 
tress ? ' 



388 THE CAP AND BELLS 



So said, one minute's while his eyes remain'd 
Half lidded, piteous, languid, innocent ; 
But, in a wink, their splendour they regain'd, 
Sparkling revenge with amorous fury blent. 
Love thwarted in bad temper oft has vent : 
He rose, he stampt his foot, he rang the bell, 
And order'd some death-warrants to be sent 
For signature : — somewhere the tempest fell, 
As many a poor fellow does not live to tell. 

XXI 

' At the same time, Eban,' — (this was his page, 
A fay of colour, slave from top to toe, 
Sent as a present, while yet under age, 
From the Viceroy of Zanguebar, — wise, slow. 
His speech, his only words were ' yes' and ' no,' 
But swift of look, and foot, and wing was he,) — 
' At the same time, Eban, this instant go 
To Hum the soothsayer, whose name I see 
Among the fresh arrivals in our empery. 

XXII 

'Bring Hum to me! But stay — here take my 

ring. 
The pledge of favour, that he not suspect 
Any foul play, or awkward murdering 
Tho' I have bow strung many of his sect ; 
Throw in a hint, that if he should neglect 
One hour the next shall see him in my grasp. 
And the next after that shall see him neck'd, 
Or swallow'd by my hunger-starved asp, — 
And mention ('tis as well) the torture of the wasp.' 



These orders given, the Prince, in half a pet, 
Let o'er the silk his propping elbow slide, 



THE CAP AND BELLS 389 

Caught up his little legs, and, in a fret, 
Fell on the sofa on his royal side, 
The slave retreated backwards, humble-eyed, 
And with a slave-like silence closed the door, 
And to old Hum thro' street and alley hied ; 
He ' knew the city,' as we say, of yore, 
And for short cuts and turns, w^as nobody knew 
more. 

XXIV 

It was the time when wholesale dealers close 
Their shutters with a moody sense of wealth, 
But retail dealers, diligent, let loose 
The gas (objected to on score of health), 
Convey'd in little solder'd pipes by stealth, 
And make it flare in many a brilliant form, 
That all the powers of darkness it repell'th. 
Which to the oil-trade doth great scaith and harm, 
And supersedeth quite the use of the glow-worm. 



Eban, untempted by the pastry-cooks, 

(Of pastry he got store within the palace,) 

With hasty steps, wrapp'd cloak, and solemn looks, 

Incognito upon his errand sallies. 

His smelling-bottle ready for the allies ; 

He pass'd the hurdy-gurdies with disdain, 

Vowing he 'd have them sent on board the gal 

leys; 
Just as he made his vow, it 'gan to rain. 
Therefore he call'd a coach, and bade it drive amain. 



'I'll pull the string,' said he, and further said, 
' Polluted Jarvey ! Ah, thou filthy hack ! 
Whose springs of life are all dried up and dead. 
Whose linsey-woolsey lining hangs all slack, 
Whose rug is straw, whose wholeness is a crack 



390 THE CAP AND BELLS 

And evermore thy steps go clatter-clitter ; 
Whose glass once up can never be got back, 
Who prov'st, with jolting arguments and bitter, 
That 't is of modern use to travel in a litter. 



' Thou inconvenience ! thou hungry crop 
For all corn ! thou snail-creeper to and fro, 
Who while thou goest ever seem'st to stop, 
And fiddle-faddle standest while you go ; 
I' the morning, freighted with a weight of woe, 
Unto some lazar-house thou journeyest, 
And in the evening tak'st a double row 
Of dowdies for some dance or party drest, 
Besides the goods meanwhile thou movest east and 
west. 

XXVIII 

' By thy ungallant bearing and sad mien, 
An inch appears the utmost thou couldst budge : 
Yet at the slightest nod, or hint, or sign, 
Round to the curb- stone patient dost thou trudge, 
School'd in a beckon, learned in a nudge, 
A dull-eyed Argus watching for a fare ; 
Quiet and plodding thou dost bear no grudge 
To whisking tilburies, or phaetons rare, 
Curricles, or mail-coaches, swift beyond compare.' 



Philosophizing thus, he pull'd the check. 
And bade the coachman wheel to such a street, 
Who turning much his body, more his neck, 
Louted full low, and hoarsely did him greet : 
' Certes, Monsieur were best take to his feet. 
Seeing his servant can no farther drive 
For press of coaches, that to-night here meet. 
Many as bees about a straw-capp'd hive, 
When first for April honey into faint flowers they 
dive.' 



THE CAP AND BELLS 391 

XXX 

Eban then paid his fare, and tiptoe went 
To Hum's hotel ; and, as he on did pass 
With head inclined, each dusky lineament 
Show'd in the pearl-paved street as in a glass ; 
His purple vest, that ever peeping was 
Rich from the fluttering crimson of his cloak, 
His silvery trowsers, and his silken sash 
Tied in a burnish' d knot, their semblance took 
Upon the mirror'd walls, wherever he might look. 

XXXI 

He smiled at self, and, smiling, show'd his teeth, 
And seeing his white teeth, he smiled the more ; 
Lifted his eyebrows, spurn' d the path beneath, 
Show'd teeth again, and smiled as heretofore. 
Until he knock' d at the magician's door ; 
"Where, till the porter answer'd, might be seen. 
In the clear panel more he could adore, — 
His turban wreathed of gold, and white, and 
green, 
Mustachios, ear-ring, nose-ring, and his sabre keen. 



' Does not your master give a rout to-night ? ' 
Quoth the dark page ; ' Oh, no ! ' return'd the 

Swiss, 
' Next door but one to us, upon the right. 
The Magazin des Modes now open is 
Against the Emperor's wedding ; — and, sir, this 
My master finds a monstrous horrid bore ; 
As he retired, an hour ago iwis, 
With his best beard and brimstone, to explore 
And cast a quiet figure in his second floor. 

XXXIII 

' Gad ! he 's obliged to stick to business ! 
For chalk, I hear, stands at a pretty price ; 



392 THE CAP AND BELLS 

And as for aqua vitae — there 's a mess ! 
The denies sapientice of mice 
Our barber tells me too are on the rise, — 
Tinder 's a lighter article, — nitre pure 
Goes off like lightning, — grains of Paradise 
At an enormous figure ! — stars not sure ! — 
Zodiac will not move without a slight douceur ! 

XXXIV 

' Venus won't stir a peg without a fee. 

And master is too partial entre nous 

To—' 'Hush — hush!' cried Eban, 'sure that 

is he 
Coming downstairs, — by St. Bartholomew 1 
As backwards as he can, — is 't something new ? 
Or is 't his custom, in the name of fun ? ' 
'He always comes down backward, with one 

shoe ' — 
Return'd the porter — ' off, and one shoe on, 
Like, saving shoe for sock or stocking, my mad 

John ! ' 

XXXV 

It was indeed the great Magician, 

Feeling, with careful toe, for every stair. 

And retrograding careful as he can. 

Backwards and downwards from his own two 

pair: 
' Salpietro ! ' exclaimed Hum, ' is the dog there ? 
He 's always in my way upon the mat ! ' 
* He 's in the kitchen, or the Lord knows 

where,' — 
Replied the Swiss, — ' the nasty, yelping brat ! ' 
' Don't beat him ! ' return'd Hum, and on the floor 

came pat. 

XXXVI 

Then facing right about, he saw the Page, 

And said ; ' Don't tell me what you want, Eban ;- 



THE CAP AND BELLS 393 

The Emperor is now in a huge rage, — 
'Tis nine to one he'll give you the rattan ! 
Let us away ! ' Away together ran 
The plain-dress'd sage and spangled blackamoor, 
Nor rested till they stood to cool, and fan, 
And breathe themselves at th' Emperor's chamber 
door. 
When Eban thought he heard a soft imperial snore. 

XXXVII 

• I thought you guess' d, foretold, or prophesied, 
That's Majesty was in a raving fit?' 
' He dreams,' said Hum, ' or I have ever lied. 
That he is tearing you, sir, bit by bit. ' 
*He 's not asleep, and you have little wit,' 
Replied the Page, ' that little buzzing noise, 
Whate'er your palmistry may make of it. 
Comes from a plaything of the Emperor's choice. 
From a Man-Tiger-Organ, prettiest of his toys.' 

XXXVIII 

Eban then usher'd in the learned Seer : 
Elfinan's back was turn'd, but, ne'ertheless, 
Both, prostrate on the carpet, ear by ear, 
Crept silently, and waited in distress, 
Knowing the Emperor's moody bitterness ; 
Eban especially, who on the floor 'gan 
Tremble and quake to death, — he feared less 
A dose of senna-tea, or nightmare Gorgon, 
Than the Emperor when he play'd on his Man-Tiger- 
Organ. 



They kiss'd nine times the carpet's velvet face 
Of glossy silk, soft, smooth, and meadow-green. 
Where the close eye in deep rich fur might trace 
A silver tissue, scantly to be seen. 
As daisies lurk'd in June-grass, buds in green ; 



394 THE CAP AND BELLS 

Sudden the music ceased, sudden the hand 
Of majesty, by dint of passion keen, 
Doubled into a common fist, went grand, 
And knock'd down three cut glasses, and his best 
ink-stand. 



Then turning round, he saw those trembling two : 
'Eban,' said he, ' as slaves should taste the fruits 
Of diligence, I shall remember you 
To-morrow, or next day, as time suits, 
In a finger conversation with my mutes, — 
Begone ! — for you, Chaldean ! here remain ! 
Fear not, quake not, and as good wine recruits 
A conjurer's spirits, what cup will you drain? 
Sherry in silver, hock in gold, or glass'd cham- 
pagne ? ' 



* Commander of the Faithful ! ' answer'd Hum, 
In preference to these, I '11 merely taste 

A thimble-full of old Jamaica rum, ' 

* A simple boon ! ' said Elfinan, ' thou may'st 
Have Nantz, with which my morning-coffee's 

laced,' 1 
' I '11 have a glass of Nantz, then, — said the 
Seer, — 

* Made racy — (sure my boldness is misplaced !) — 
With the third part — (yet that is drinking 

dear !) — 
Of the least drop of creme de citron crystal clear.' 

XLII 

* I pledge you. Hum ! and pledge my dearest love, 
My Bertha ! ' ' Bertha ! Bertha I ' cried the sage, 

» 'Mr, Nisby is of opinion that laced coffee is bad for the head.' 
— Spectator. 



THE CAP AND BELLS 395 

' I know a many Berthas ! ' ' Mine 's above 
All Berthas ! ' sighed the Emperor. * I engage,' 
Said Hum, ' ia duty, and in vassalage, 
To mention all the Berthas in the earth ; — 
There 's Bertha Watson, — and Miss Bertha 

Page, — 
This famed for languid eyes, and that for mirth, — 
There 's Bertha Blount of York, — and Bertha Knox 

of Perth.' 



'You seem to know' — 'I do know,' answer'd 

Hum, 
•Your Majesty 's in love with some fine girl 
Named Bertha ; but her surname will not come, 
Without a little conjuring.' ' 'T is Pearl, 
'Tis Bertha Pearl ! What makes my brain so 

whirl V 
And she is softer, fairer than her name ! ' 
' Where does she live ? ' ask'd Hum. ' Her fair 

locks curl 
So brightly, they put all our fays to shame ! — 
Live ? — O ! at Canterbury, with her old grand 

dame.' 



' Good ! good ! ' cried Hum, ' I 've known her 

from a child ! 
She is a changeling of my management ; 
She was born at midnight in an Indian wild ; 
Her mother's screams with the striped tiger's 

blent. 
While the torch-bearing slaves a halloo sent 
Into the jungles ; and her palanquin, 
Rested amid the desert's dreariment, 
Shook with her agony, till fair were seen 
The little Bertha's eyes ope on the stars serene,' 



396 THE CAP AND BELLS 



'I can't say,' said the monarch, 'that may be 
Just as it happen'd, true or else a bam ! 
Drink up your brandy, and sit down by me, 
Feel, feel my pulse, how much in love I am ; 
And if your science is not all a sham, 
Tell me some means to get the lady here.' 
' Upon my honour ! ' said the son of Cham.i 
' She is my dainty changeling, near and dear. 
Although her story sounds at first a little queer. ' 



' Convey her to me, Hum, or by my crown, 

My sceptre, and my cross-surmounted globe, 

I'll knock you — ' 'Does your majesty mean — 

down f 
No, no, you never could my feelings probe 
To such a depth ! ' The Emperor took his robe, 
And wept upon its purple palatine, 
While Hum continued, shamming half a sob, — 
' In Canterbury doth your lady shine ? 
But let me cool your brandy with a little wine.' 

XLVII 

Whereat a narrow Flemish glass he took, 
That since belong'd to Admiral De Witt, 
Admired it with a connoisseuring look. 
And with the ripest claret crowned it, 
And, ere the lively head could burst and flit, 
He turn'd it quickly, nimbly upside down, 
His mouth being held conveniently fit 
To catch the treasure : 'Best in all the town ! ' 
He said, smack'd his moist lips, and gave a pleasant 
frown. 

1 Cham is said to have been the inventor of magic. Lucy learnt 
this from Bayle's Dictionary, and had copied a long Latin note from 
that work. 



THE CAP AND BELLS 397 

XLVIII 

* Ah ! good my Prince, weep not ! ' And then 

again 
He fill'd a bumper. ' Great Sire, do not weep ! 
Your pulse is shocking, but I'll ease your pain.' 
' Fetch me that Ottoman, and prithee keep 
Your voice low,' said the Emperor, ' and steep 
Some lady's-fingers nice in Candy wine ; 
And prithee. Hum, behind the screen do peep 
For the rose-water vase, magician mine ! 
And sponge my forehead — so my love doth make 
me pine.' 

XLIX 

' Ah, cursed Bellanaine ! ' ' Don't think of her,' 
. Rejoin'd the Mago, ' but on Bertha muse ; 
For, by my choicest best barometer, 
You shall not throttled be in marriage noose ; 
I 've said it. Sire ; you only have to choose 
Bertha or Bellanaine.' So saying, he drew 
From the left pocket of his threadbare hose, 
A sampler hoarded slyly, good as new ; 
Holding it by his thumb and finger full in view. 



' Sire, this is Bertha Pearl's neat handywork, 
Her name, see here. Midsummer, ninety -one ' — 
Elfinan snatch'd it with a sudden jerk, 
And wept as if he never would have done. 
Honouring with royal tears the poor homespun ; 
Whereon were broider'd tigers with black eyes, 
And long-tailed pheasants, and a rising sun, 
Plenty of posies, great stags, butterflies 
Bigger than stags — a moon — with other mysteries. 



The monarch handled o'er and o'er again 
These day-school hieroglyphics with a sigh ; 



398 THE CAP AND BELLS 

Somewhat in sadness, but pleased in the main, 

Till this oracular couplet met his eye 

Astounded — Cupid, I do thee defy ! 

It was too much. He shrunk back in his chair, 

Grew pale as death and fainted — very nigh ! 

' Pho ! nonsense ! ' exclaim'd Hum, ' now don't 

despair : 
She does not mean it really. Cheer up, hearty — 

there ! 



' And listen to my words. You say you won't, 

On any terms, marry Miss Bellanaine ; 

It goes against your conscience — good 1 well, 

don't. 
You say, you love a mortal. I would fain 
Persuade your honour's highness to refrain 
From peccadilloes. But, Sire, as I say, 
What good would that do ? And, to be more 

plain, 
You would do me a mischief some odd day. 
Cut off my ears and hands, or head too, by my fay ! 



' Besides, manners forbid that I should pass any 
Vile strictures on the conduct of a prince 
Who should indulge his genius, if he has any, 
Not, like a subject, foolish matter mince. 
Now I think on 't, perhaps I could convince 
Your Majesty there is no crime at all 
In loving pretty little Bertha, since 
She 's very delicate — not over tall, — 
A fairy's hand, and in the waist why — very small.' 



'Eing the repeater, gentle Hum ! ' * 'T is five,' 
Said gentle Hum ; ' the nights draw in apace ; 
The little birds I hear are all alive ; 



THE CAP AND BELLS 399 

I see the dawning touch'd upon your face ; 
Shall I put out the candles, please your Grace ? ' 
' Do put them out, and, without more ado, 
Tell me how I may that sweet girl embrace, — 
How you can bring her to me.' * That 's for you. 
Great Emperor 1 to adventure, like a lover true.' 

LV 

= * I fetch her ! ' — ' Yes, an 't like your Majesty ; 
And as she would be frighten'd wide awake, 
To travel such a distance through the sky, 
Use of some soft manoeuvre you must make. 
For your convenience, and her dear nerves' sake ; 
Nice Way would be to bring her in a swoon, 
Anon, I '11 tell you what course were best to take ; 
You must away this morning.' ' Hum ! so soon ? ' 

* Sire, you must be in Kent by twelve o'clock at 
noon.' 



At this great Csesar started on his feet. 
Lifted his wings, and stood attentivewise. 
Those wings to Canterbury you must beat, 
If you hold Bertha as a worthy prize. 
Look in the Almanack — Moore never lies — 
April the twenty-fourth — this coming day. 
Now breathing its new bloom upon the skies, 
Will end in St. Mark's Eve ; — you must away, 
For on that eve alone can you the maid convey.' 

LVII 

Then the magician solemnly 'gan to frown, 
So that his frost- white eye-brows, beetling low, 
Shaded his deep green eyes, and wrinkles brown 
Plaited upon his furnace -scorched brow : 
Forth from his hood that hung his neck below 
He lifted a bright casket of pure gold, 
Touch'd a spring-lock, and there in wool or snow, 



400 THE CAP AND BELLS 

Charm'd into ever freezing, lay an old 
And legend- leaved book, mysterious to behold. 



LVIII 

' Take this same book — it will not bite you, Sire ; 
There, put it underneath your royal arm ; 
Though it's a pretty weight, it will not tire, 
But rather on your journey keep you warm : 
This is the magic, this the potent charm, 
That shall drive Bertha to a fainting fit ! 
When the time comes, don't feel the least alarm 
But lift her from the ground, and swiftly flit 
Back to your palace 

LIX 

* What shall I do with that same book ? ' ' Why 

merely 
Lay it on Bertha's table, close beside 
Her work-box, and 't will help your purpose 

dearly ; 
I say no more. ' ' Or good or ill betide. 
Through the wide air to Kent this morn I glide ! ' 
Exclaim' d the Emperor, ' When I return. 
Ask what you will, — I '11 give you my new 

bride ! 
And take some more wine. Hum ; — O, Heavens! 

I burn 
To be upon the wing 1 Now, now, that minx I 

spurn ! ' 

LX 

* Leave her to me,' rejoin'd the magian : 

' But how shall I account, illustrious fay ! 
For thine imperial absence ? Pho ! I can 
Say you are very sick, and bar the way 
To your so loving courtiers for one day ; 
If either of their two Archbishops' graces 



THE CAP AND BELLS 401 

Should talk of extreme unction, I shall say 
You do not like cold pig with Latin phrases, 
Which never should be used but in alarming cases.' 



LXI 

* Open the window. Hum ; I 'm ready now ! ' 
' Zooks ! ' exclaim'd Hum, as up the sash he drew, 
'Behold, your Majesty, upon the brow 
Of yonder hill, what crowds of people ! ' ' Whew ! 
The monster's always after something new,' 
Return'd his Highness, 'they are piping hot 
To see my pigsney Bellanaine. Hum ! do 
Tighten my belt a little, — so, so, — not 
Too tight, — the book ! — my wand ! — so, nothing 
is forgot.' 



* Wounds ! how they shout ! ' said Hum, ' and 

there, — see, see, 
Th' ambassador's return'd from Pigmio ! 
The morning 's very fine, — uncommonly ! 
See, past the skirts of yon white cloud they go, 
Tinging it with soft crimsons ! Now below 
The sable -pointed heads'of firs and pines 
They dip, move on, and with them moves a glow 
Along the forest side ! Now amber lines 
Reach the hill top, and now throughout the valley 

shines.' 



' Why, Hum, you 're getting quite poetical ! 
Those nows you managed in a special style.' 
' If ever you have leisure. Sire, you shall 
See scraps of mine will make it worth your while, 
Tit-bits for Phoebus ! — yes, you well may smile. 
Hark ! hark ! the bells !' 'A little further yet, 
Good Hum, and let me view this mighty coil.' 



402 THE CAP AND BELLS 

Then the great Emperor full graceful set 
His elbow for a prop, and snuff'd his mignonette. 

LXIV 

The morn is full of holiday : loud bells 
With rival clamors ring from every spire ; 
Cunningly-station'd music dies and swells 
In echoing places ; when the winds respire, 
Light flags stream out like gauzy tongues of fire ; 
A metropolitan murmur, lifeful, warm. 
Comes from the northern suburbs ; rich attire 
Freckles with red and gold the moving swarm ; 
While here and there clear trumpets blow a keen 
alarm. 

LXV 

And now the fairy escort was seen clear, 
Like the old pageant of Aurora's train, 
Above a pearl-built minster, hovering near ; 
First wily Crafticant, the chamberlain. 
Balanced upon his gray-grown pinions twain, 
His slender wand officially reveal'd ; 
Then black gnomes scattering sixpences like rain ; 
Then pages three and three ; and next, slave-held 
The Imaian 'scutcheon bright, — one mouse in ar- 
gent field. 

LXVI 

Gentlemen pensioners next ; and after them, 
A troop of winged Janizaries flew ; 
Then slaves, as presents bearing many a gem ; 
Then twelve physicians fluttering two and two ; 
And next a chaplain in a cassock new ; 
Then Lords in waiting ; then (what head not reels 
For pleasure ?) — the fair Princess in full view, 
Borne upon wings, — and very pleased she feels 
To have such splendour dance attendance at her 
heels. 



THE CAP AND BELLS 403 

LXVII 

For there was more magnificence behind : 
She waved her handkerchief. ' Ah, very grand ! ' 
Cried Elfinan, and closed the window-blind ; 
' And, Hum, we must not shilly-shally stand, — 
Adieu ! adieu ! I 'm off for Angle-land ! 
I say, old Hocus, have you such a thing 
About you, — feel your pockets, I command, — 
I want, this instant, an invisible ring, — 
Thank you, old mummy ! — now securely I take 
wing.' 

LXVIII 

Then Elfinan swift vaulted from the floor, 
And lighted graceful on the window-sill ; 
Under one arm the magic book he bore, 
The other he could wave about at will ; 
Pale was his face, he stiil look'd very ill : 
He bow'd at Bellanaine, and said — ' Poor Bell ! 
Farewell ! farewell ! and if for ever ! still 
For ever fare thee well ! ' — and then he fell 
A laughing ! — snapp'd his fingers ! — shame it is to 
tell! 

LXIX 

' By 'r Lady ! he is gone ! ' cries Hum, ' and I, — 
(I own it), — have made too free with his wine ; 
Old Crafticant will smoke me. By-the-bye 1 
This room is full of jewels as a mine, — 
Dear valuable creatures, how ye shine ! 
Sometime to-day I must contrive a minute, 
If Mercury propitiously incline. 
To examine his scrutoire, and see what 's in it. 
For of superfluous diamonds I as well may thin it. 



' The Emperor 's horrid bad ; yes, that 's my cue ! ' 
Some histories say that this was Hum's last 
speech ; 



404 THE CAP AND BELLS 

That, being fuddled, he went reeling through 
The corridor, and scarce upright could reach 
The stair-head ; that being glutted as a leech, 
And used, as we ourselves have just now said, 
To manage stairs reversely, like a peach 
Too ripe, he fell, being puzzled in his head 
With liquor and the staircase : verdict — found stone 
dead. 



This, as a falsehood, Crafticanto treats ; 
And as his style is of strange elegance, 
Gentle and tender, full of soft conceits, 
(Much like our Boswell's,) we will take a glance 
At his sweet prose, and, if we can, make dance 
His woven periods into careless rhyme ; 
O, little faery Pegasus ! rear — prance — 
Trot round the quarto — ordinary time ! 
March, little Pegasus, with pawing hoof sublime ! 

LXXII 

' Well, let us see, — tentti hook and chapter nine, ' — 
Thus Crafticant pursues his diary : — 
' 'T was twelve o'clock at night, the weather fine. 
Latitude thirty-six ; our scouts descry 
A flight of starlings making rapidly 
Towards Thibet. Mem. : — birds fly in the night ; 
From twelve to half-past — wings not fit to fly 
For a thick fog — the Princess sulky quite : 
Caird for an extra shawl, and gave her nurse a bite. 



' Five minutes before one — brought down a moth 
With my new double-barrel — stew'd the thighs. 
And made a very tolerable broth — 
Princess turn'd dainty, to our great surprise, 
Alter' d her mind, and thought it very nice : 
Seeing her pleasant, tried her with a pun, 



THE CAP AND BELLS 405 

She frown'd ; a monstrous owl across us flies 
About this time, — a sad old figure of fun ; 
Bad omen — this new match can't be a happy one. 



* From two to half-past, dusky way we made, 
Above the plains of Gobi, — desert, bleak ; 
Beheld afar off, in the hooded shade 
Of darkness, a great mountain (strange to speak), 
Spitting, from forth its sulphur-baken peak, 
A fan-shaped burst of blood -red, arrowy fire, 
Turban'd with smoke, which still away did reek. 
Solid and black from that eternal pyre. 
Upon the laden winds that scan tly could respire, 

LXXV 

'Just upon three o'clock, a falling star 

Created an alarm among our troop, 

Kill'd a man-cook, a page, and broke a jar, 

A tureen, and three dishes, at one swoop. 

Then passing by the Princess, singed her hoop : 

Could not conceive what Coralline was at. 

She clapp'd her hands three times, and cried out 

"Whoop !" 
Some strange Imaian custom. A large bat 
Came sudden 'fore my face, and brush'd against my 
hat. 



* Five minutes thirteen seconds after three, 
Far in the west a mighty fire broke out, 
Conjectured, on the instant, it might be 
The city of Balk — 'twas Balk beyond all doubt : 
A griffin, wheeling here and there about. 
Kept reconnoitering us — doubled our guard — 
Lighted our torches, and kept up a shout, 
Till he sheer'd off — the Princess very scared — 
And many on their marrow-bones for death prepared. 



4o6 THE CAP AND BELLS 



LXXVII 

' At half -past three arose the cheerful moon — 
Bivoiiack'd for four minutes on a cloud — 
Where from the earth we heard a lively tune 
Of tambourines and pipes, severe and loud, 
While on a flowery lawn a brilliant crowd 
Cinque -parted danced, some half asleep reposed 
Beneath the green-faned cedars, some did shroud 
In silken tents, and 'mid light fragrance dozed, 
Or on the open turf their soothed eyelids closed. 



'Dropp'd my gold watch, and kill'd a kettle- 
drum — 
It went for apoplexy — foolish folks ! — 
Left it to pay the piper — a good sum — 
(I 've got a conscience, maugre people's jokes,) 
To scrape a little favour ; 'gan to coax 
Her Highness' pug-dog — got a sharp rebuff — 
She wish'd a game at whist — made three re- 
vokes — 
Turn'd from myself, her partner, in a huff ; 
His Majesty will know her temper time enough. 



* She cried for chess — I play'd a game with her 
Castled her king with such a vixen look, 
It bodes ill to his Majesty — (refer 
To the second chapter of my fortieth book, 
And see what hoity-toity airs she took). 
At half-past four the morn essay'd to beam — 
Saluted, as we pass'd, an early rook, — 
The Princess fell asleep, and, in her dream, 
Talk'd of one Master Hubert, deep in her esteem. 



' About this time — making delightful way — 
Shed a quill-feather from my larboard wing — 



i 



THE CAP AND BELLS 407 

Wish'd, trusted, hoped 't was no sign of decay — 
Thank Heaven, I 'm hearty yet ! — 't was no such 

thing : — 
At five the golden light began to spring, 
With fiery shudder through the bloomed east ; 
At six we heard Panthea's churches ring — 
The city all his unhived swarms had cast, 
To watch our grand approach, and hail us as we 

pass'd. 



* As flowers turn their faces to the sam, 
So on our flight with hungry eyes they gaze. 
And, as we shaped our course, this, that way run, 
With mad-cap pleasure, or hand-clasp'd amaze : 
Sweet in the air a mild-toned music plays, 
And progresses through its own labyrinth ; 
Buds gather'd from the green spring's middle- 
days, 
They scatter'd — daisy, primrose, hyacinth — 
Or round white columns wreathed from capital to 
plinth. 



' Onward we floated o'er the panting streets, 
That seem'd throughout with upheld faces paved ; 
Look where we will, our bird's-eye vision meets 
Legions of holiday ; bright standards waved, 
And fluttering ensigns emulously craved 
Our minute's glance ; a busy thunderous roar, 

I From square to square, among the buildings 
raved. 
As when the sea, at flow, gluts up once more 

The craggy hoUowness of a wild-reefed shore. 



* And " Bellanaine for ever ! " shouted they ! 
While that fair Princess, from her winged chair, 



4o8 THE CAP AND BELLS 

Bow'd low with high demeanour, and, to pay 
Their new-blown loyalty with guerdon fair. 
Still emptied, at meet distance, here and there, 
A plenty horn of jewels. And here I 
(Who wish to give the devil her due) declare 
Against that ugly piece of calumny. 
Which calls them Highland pebble-stones not worth 
a fly. 

LXXXIV 

* Still "Bellanaine ! "they shouted, while we glide 
'Slant to a light Ionic portico, 

The city's delicacy, and the pride 
Of our Imperial Basilic ; a row , 

Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make show 
Submissive of knee-bent obeisance, 
All down the steps ; and, as we enter'd, lo ! 
The strangest sight — the most unlook'd-for 
chance — 
All things turn'd topsy-turvy in a devil's dance. 

LXXXV 

"Stead of his anxious Majesty and court 
At the open doors, with wide saluting eyes. 
Congees and scrape-graces of every sort, 
And all the smooth routine of gallantries. 
Was seen, to our immoderate surprise, 
A motley crowd thick gather'd in the hall, 
Lords, scullions, deputy-scullions, with wild cries 
Stunning the vestible from wall to wall. 
Where the Chief Justice on his knees and hands doth 
crawl. 

LXXXVI 

* Counts of the palace, and the state purveyor 
Of moth's-down, to make soft the royal beds, 
The Common Council and my fool Lord Mayor 
Marching a-row, each other slipshod treads ; 



THE CAP AND BELLS 409 

Powder'd bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads 
Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other ; 
Toe crush'd with heel ill-natured fighting breeds, 
Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a bother, 
And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell and 
pother. 



' A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown's back, 
Rode to the Princess swift with spurring heels, 
And close into her face, with rhyming clack, 
Began a Prothalamion ; — she reels, 
She falls, she faints ! ■ — while laughter peals 
Over her woman's weakness. " Where ! " cried I, 
" Where is his Majesty ? " No person feels 
Inclined to answer ; wherefore instantly 
I plunged into the crowd to find him or to die. 



' Jostling my way I gain'd the stairs, and ran 
To the first landing, where, incredible ! 
I met, far gone in liquor, that old man, 

That vile impostor Hum, ' 

So far so well, — 
For we have proved the Mago never fell 
Down stairs on Crafticanto's evidence ; 
And therefore duly shall proceed to tell, ' 
Plain in our own original mood and tense. 
The sequel of this day, though labour 't is immense ! 



410 THE LAST SONNET 



THE LAST SONNET 

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art ! 

Not in lone splendour liung aloft the night, 
And watching, with eternal lids apart, 

Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 
The moving waters at their priestlike task 

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores 
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors : 
No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, 
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, 

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest. 
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath. 
And so live ever — or else swoon to death. 



SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

The collection which follows is not intended to be taken 
exactly as containing the leavings of Keats's genius ; there 
are verses in the previous groups which might be placed 
here, if the intention was to make a marked division be- 
tween his well-defined poetry and his experiments and mere 
scintillations ; doubtless, too, on any such principle it 
would be just to take back into the respectability of larger 
type some of the lines here included. But it seemed wise 
to put into a subordinate group the poet's fragmentary and 
posthumous poems, and those which were plainly the mere 
playthings of his muse. 

I. HYPERION: A VISION 

[*An attempt at remodelling the fragment of Hyperion 
into the form of a vision.'] 

CANTO I 

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave 

A paradise for a sect ; the savage, too, 

From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep 

Guesses at heaven ; pity these have not 

Trao'dupon vellum or wild Indian leaf 

The shadows of melodious utterance. 

But bare of laurel they live, dream, and die ; 

For Poesy alone can tell her dreams, — 

With the fine spell of words alone can save 

Imagination from the sable chain lo 

And dumb enchantment. "Who alive can say, 

* Thou art no Poet — may'st not tell thy dreams ' ? 

Since every man whose soul is not a clod 

Hath visions and would speak, if he had loved, 



412 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

And been well nurtured in his mother tongue. 
Whether the dream now purpos'd to rehearse 
Be poet's or fanatic's will be known 
When this warm scribe, my hand, is in the grave. 

Methought I stood where trees of every clime, 

Palm, myrtle, oak, and sycamore, and beech, 2c 

With plantane and spice-blossoms, made a screen. 

In neighbourhood of fountains (by the noise 

Soft-showering in mine ears), and (by the touch 

Of scent) not far from roses. Twining round 

I saw an arbour with a drooping roof 

Of trellis vines, and bells, and larger blooms, 

Like floral censers, swinging light in air ; 

Before its wreathed doorway, on a mound 

Of moss, was spread a feast of summer fruits, 

Which, nearer seen, seem'd refuse of a meal_ 30 

By angel tasted or our Mother Eve ; 

For empty shells were scatter'd on the grass, 

And grapestalks but half -bare, and remnants more 

Sweet-smelling, whose pure kinds I could not know. 

Still was more plenty than the fabled horn 

Thrice emptied could pour forth at banqueting, 

For Proserpine return'd to her own fields, 

Where the white heifers low. And appetite, 

More yearning than on earth I ever felt, 

Growing within, I ate deliciously, — 4° 

And, after not long, thirsted ; for thereby 

Stood a cool vessel of transparent juice 

Sipp'd by the wander'd bee, the which I took, 

And pledging all the mortals of the world. 

And all the dead whose names are in our lips. 

Drank. That full draught is parent of my theme. 

No Asian poppy nor elixir fine 

Of the soon fading, jealous Caliphat, 

No poison gender'd in close monkish cell. 

To thin the scarlet conclave of old men, 50 

Could so have rapt unwilling life away. 



HYPERION: A VISION 413 

Among the fragrant husks and berries crush'd 

Upon the grass, I struggled hard against 

The domineering potion, but in vain. 

The cloudy swoon came on, and down I sank, 

Like a Silenus on an antique vase. 

How long I slumber'd 't is a chance to guess. 

When sense of life return'd, I started up 

As if with wings, but the fair trees were gone, 

The mossy mound and arbour were no more : 60 

I look'd around upon the curved sides 

Of an old sanctuary, with roof august, 

Builded so high, it seem'd that filmed clouds 

Might spread beneath as o'er the stars of heaven. 

So old the place was, I remember'd none 

The like upon the earth : what I had seen 

Of grey cathedrals, buttress'd walls, rent towers. 

The superannuations of sunk realms. 

Or Nature's rocks toil'd hard in waves and winds, 

Seem'd but the faulture of decrepit things 70 

To that eternal domed monument. 

Upon the marble at my feet there lay 

Store of strange vessels and large draperies, 

Which needs had been of dyed asbestos wove, 

Or in that place the moth could not corrupt, , 

So white the linen, so, in some, distinct 

Ran imageries from a sombre loom. 

All in a mingled heap confus'd there lay 

Robes, golden tongs, censer and chafing-dish, 

Girdles, and chains, and holy jewelries. 80 

Turning from these with awe, once more I raised 
My eyes to fathom the space every way : 
The embossed roof, the silent massy range 
Of columns north and south, ending in mist 
Of nothing ; then to eastward, where black gates 
Were shut against the sunrise evermore ; 
Then to the west I look'd, and saw far off 
An image, huge of feature as a cloud. 



414 SUPPLEMENTARY VI;RSE 

At level of whose feet an altar slept, 

To be approach'd on either side by steps 90 

And marble balustrade, and patient travail 

To count with toil the innumerable degrees. 

Toward the altar sober-pac'd I went, 

Repressing haste as too unholy there ; 

And, coming nearer, saw beside the shrine 

One ministering ; and there arose a flame 

When in mid-day the sickening east-wind 

Shifts sudden to the south, the small warm rain 

Melts out the frozen incense from all flowers. 

And fills the air with so much pleasant health 100 

That even the dying man forgets his shroud ; — 

Even so that lofty sacrificial fire, 

Sending forth Maian incense, spread around 

Forgetfulness of everything but bliss, 

And clouded all the altar with soft smoke ; 

From whose white fragrant curtains thus I heard 

Language pronounc'd : ' If thou canst not ascend 

These steps, die on that marble where thou art. 

Thy flesh, near cousin to the common dust, 

Will parch for lack of nutriment ; thy bones no 

Will wither in few years, and vanish so 

That not the quickest eye could find a grain 

Of what thou now art on that pavement cold. 

The sands of thy short life are spent this hour, 

And no hand in the universe can turn 

Thy hourglass, if these gummed leaves be burnt 

Ere thou canst mount up these immortal steps.' 

I heard, I look'd : two senses both at once, 

So fine, so subtle, felt the tyranny 

Of that fierce threat and the hard task proposed. 120 

Prodigious seem'd the toil ; the leaves were yet 

Burning, when suddenly a palsied chill 

Struck from the paved level up my limbs, 

And was ascending quick to put cold grasp 

Upon those streams that pulse beside the throat. 

I shriek'd, and the sharp anguish of my shriek 



HYPERION: A VISION 415 

Stung my own ears ; I strove hard to escape 

The numbness, strove to gain the lowest step. 

Slow, heavy, deadly was my pace : the cold 

Grew stifling, suffocating at the heart ; 130 

And when I clasp'd my hands I felt them not. 

One minute before death my ic'd foot touch'd 

The lowest stair ; and, as it touch'd, life seem'd 

To pour in at the toes, I mounted up 

As once fair angels on a ladder flew 

From the green turf to heaven. ' Holy Power,' 

Cried I, approaching near the horned shrine, 

* What am I that should so be saved from death ? 

"What am I that another death come not 

To choke my utterance, sacrilegious, here ? ' 140 

Then said the veiled shadow : ' Thou hast felt 

What 't is to die and live again before 

Thy fated hour ; that thou hadst power to do so 

Is thine own safety ; thou hast dated on 

Thy doom.' ' High Prophetess,' said I, ' purge off 

Benign, if so it please thee, my mind's film.' 

' None can usurp this height,' return'd that shade, 

' But those to whom the miseries of the world 

Are misery, and will not let them rest. 

All else who find a haven in the world, 150 

Where they may thoughtless sleep away their days, 

If by a chance into this fane they come, 

Rot on the pavement where thou rottedst half. 

' Are there not thousands in the world,' said I, 

Encourag'd by the sooth voice of the shade, 

' Who love their fellows even to the death, 

Who feel the giant agony of the world, 

And more, like slaves to poor humanity, 

Labour for mortal good ? I sure should see 

Other men here, but I am here alone.' i6o 

' Those whom thou spakest of are no visionaries, ' 

Rejoin'd that voice ; 'they are no dreamers weak; 

They seek no wonder but the human face, 

No music but a happy-noted voice : 



4i6 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

They come not here, they have no thought to come ; 

And thou art here, for thou art less than they. 

What benefit canst thou do, or all thy tribe, 

To the great world ? Thou art a dreaming thing, 

A fever of thyself : think of the earth ; 

What bliss, even in hope, is there for thee ? , 170 

What haven ? every creature hath its home, 

Every sole man hath days of joy and pain, 

Whether his labours be sublime or low — 

The pain alone, the joy alone, distinct : 

Only the dreamer venoms all his days. 

Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve. 

Tkerefore, that happiness be somewhat shared, 

Such things as thou art are admitted oft 

Into like gardens thou didst pass erewhile. 

And suff er'd in these temples : for that cause 180 

Thou standestsafe beneath this statue's knees.' 

' That I am favour'd for unworthiness. 
By such propitious parley medicined 
In sickness not ignoble, I rejoice. 
Aye, and could weep for love of such award.' 
So answer'd I, continuing, ' If it please. 
Majestic shadow, tell me where I am. 
Whose altar this, for whom this incense curls ; 
What image this whose face I cannot see 
For the broad marble knees ; and who thou art, 190 
Of accent feminine so courteous ? ' 

Then the tall shade, in drooping linen veil'd. 
Spoke out, so much more earnest, that her breath 
Stirr'd the thin folds of gauze that drooping hung 
About a golden censer from her hand 
Pendent ; and by her voice I knew she shed 
Long-treasured tears. ' This temple, sad and lone. 
Is all spar'd from the thunder of a war 
Foughten long since by giant hierarchy 
Against rebellion : this old image here, 200 



HYPERION: A VISION 417 

"Whose carved features wrinkled as he fell, 

Is Saturn's ; I, Moneta, left supreme, 

Sole goddess of this desolation.' 

I had no words to answer, for my tongue, 

Useless, could find about its roofed home 

No syllable of a fit majesty 

To make rejoinder to Moneta's mourn : 

There was a silence, while the altar's blaze 

Was fainting for sweet food. I look'd thereon, 

And on the paved floor, where nigh were piled 210 

Faggots of cinnamon, and many heaps 

Of other crisped spicewood : then again 

I look'd upon the altar, and its horns 

Whiten'd with ashes, and its languorous flame, 

And then upon the offerings again ; 

And so, by turns, till sad Moneta cried : 

* The sacrifice is done, but not the less 

Will I be kind to thee for thy good will. 

My power, which to me is still a curse, 

Shall be to thee a wonder ; for the scenes 220 

Still swooning vivid through my globed brain, 

With an electral changing misery. 

Thou shalt with these dull mortal eyes behold 

Free from all pain, if wonder pain thee not.' 

As near as an immortal's sphered words 

Could to a mother's soften were these last : 

And yet I had a terror of her robes. 

And chiefly of the veils that from her brow 

Hung pale, and curtain' d her in mysteries. 

That made my heart too small to hold its blood. 230 

This saw that Goddess, and with sacred hand 

Parted the veils. Then saw I a wan face, 

Not pin'd by human sorrows, but bright-blanch'd 

By an immortal sickness which kills not ; 

It works a constant change, which happy death 

Can put no end to ; death wards progressing 

To no death was that visage ; it had past 

The lily and the snow ; and beyond these 



4i8 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

I must not think now, though I saw that face. 

But for her eyes I should have fled away ; 240 

They held me back with a benignant light, 

Soft, mitigated by divinest lids 

Half-clos'd, and visionless entire they seem'd 

Of all external things ; they saw me not, 

But in blank splendour beam'd, like the mild moon, 

Who comforts those she sees not, who knows not 

What eyes are upward cast. As I had found 

A grain of gold upon a mountain's side, 

And, twing'd with avarice, strain'd out my eyes 

To search its sullen entrails rich with ore, 250 

So, at the view of sad Moneta's brow, 

I ask'd to see what things the hollow brow 

Behind environ'd : what high tragedy 

In the dark secret chambers of her skull 

Was acting, that could give so dread a stress 

To her cold lips, and fill with such a light 

Her planetary eyes, and touch her voice 

With such a sorrow ? ' Shade of Memory J ' 

Cried I, with act adorant at her feet, 

' By all the gloom hung round thy fallen house, 26c- 

By this last temple, by the golden age. 

By great Apollo, thy dear foster-child. 

And by thyself, forlorn divinity, 

The pale Omega of a wither'd race. 

Let me behold, according as thou saidst, 

What in thy brain so ferments to and fro ! ' 

No sooner had this conjuration past 

My devout lips, than side by side we stood 

(Like a stunt bramble by a solemn pine) 

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 270 

Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, 

Far from the fiery noon and eve's one star. 

Onward I look'd beneath the gloomy boughs, 

And saw what first I thought an image huge. 

Like to the image pedestall'd so high 

In Saturn's temple ; then Moneta's voice 



HYPERION: A VISION 419 

Came brief upon mine ear. ' So Saturn sat 

When he had lost his reahns ; ' whereon there grew 

A power within me of enormous ken 

To see as a god sees, and take the depth 280 

Of things as nimbly as the outward eye 

Can size and shape pervade. The lofty theme 

Of those few words hung vast before my mind 

With half-unraveird web. I sat myself 

Upon an eagle's watch, that I might see, 

And seeing ne'er forget. No stir of life 

Was in this shrouded vale, — not so much air 

As in the zoning of a summer's day 

Robs not one light seed from the feather' d grass 

But where the dead leaf fell there did it rest. 290 

A stream went noiseless by, still deaden' d more 

By reason of the fallen divinity 

Spreading more shade ; the Naiad 'mid her reeds 

Prest her cold finger closer to her lips. 

Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went 
No further than to where old Saturn's feet 
Had rested, and there slept how long a sleep ! 
Degraded, cold, upon the sodden ground 
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, 
Unsceptred, and his realmless eyes were closed ; 300 
While his bowed head seem'd listening to the Earth, 
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 

It seem'd no force could wake him from his place; 
But there came one who, with a kindred hand, 
Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low 
With reverence, though to one who knew it not. 
Then came the grieved voice Mnemosyne, 
And griev'd I hearken'd. ' That divinity 
Whom thou saw'st step from yon forlornest wood, 
And with slow pace approach our fallen king, 310 
Is Thea, softest-natured of our brood. ' 
I mark'd the Goddess, in fair statuary 



420 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

Surpassing wan Moneta by the head, 

And in her sorrow nearer woman's tears. 

There was a list'ning fear in her regard, 

As if calamity had but begun ; 

As if the venom'd cloud of evil days 

Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 

Was with its stored thunder labouring up. 

One hand she press'd upon that aching spot 320 

Where beats the human heart, as if just there, 

Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain ; 

The other upon Saturn's bended neck 

She laid, and to the level of his ear 

Leaning, with parted lips some words she spoke 

In solemn tenour and deep organ-tone ; 

Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue 

Would come in this like accenting ; how frail 

To that large utterance of the early gods ! 

* Saturn, look up ! and for what, poor lost king ? 
I have no comfort for thee ; no, not one ; 331 

I cannot say, wherefore thus sleepest thou ? 
For Heaven is parted from thee, and the Earth 
Knows thee not, so aMcted, for a god. • 

The Ocean, too, with all its solemn noise. 
Has from thy sceptre pass'd ; and all the air 
Is emptied of thy hoary majesty. f 

Thy thunder, captious at the new command, 
Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 
And thy sharp lightning, in unpractis'd hands, 340 
Scourges and burns our once serene domain. 

'With such remorseless speed still come new 
woes, 
That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 
Saturn ! sleep on : me thoughtless, why should I 
Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude ? 
Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes ? • 
Saturn ! sleep on, while at thy feet I weep.' 



HYPERION: A VISION 421 

As when upon a tranced summer-night 
Forests, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, 
Dream, and so dream all night without a noise, 350 
Save from one gradual solitary gust 
Swelling upon the silence, dying off, 
As if the ebbing air had but one wave, 
So came these words and went ; the while in tears 
She prest her fair large forehead to the earth, 
Just where her fallen hair might spread in curls, 
A soft and silken net for Saturn's feet. 
Long, long these two were postured motionless. 
Like sculpture builded-up upon the grave 
Of their own power. A long awful time 360 

I look'd upon them : still they were the same ; 
The frozen God still bending to the earth, 
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet ; 
Moneta silent. Without stay or prop 
But my own weak mortality, I bore 
The load of this eternal quietude. 
The unchanging gloom and the three fixed shapes 
Ponderous upon my senses, a whole moon ; 
For by my burning brain I measiu-ed sure 
Her silver seasons shedded on the night, 370 

And every day by day methought I grew 
More gaunt and ghostly. Oftentimes I pray'd 
Intense, that death would take me from the vale 
And all its burthens ; gasping with despair 
Of change, hour after hour I curs'd myself, 
Until old Saturn rais'd his faded eyes. 
And look'd around and saw his kingdom gone, 
And all the gloom and sorrow of the place, 
And that fair kneeling Goddess at his feet. 

As the moist scent of flowers, and grass, and 
leaves 380 

Fills forest-dells with a pervading air. 
Known to the woodland nostril, so the words 
Of Saturn fill'd the mossy glooms around, 



422 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

Even to the hollows of time-eaten oaks, 
And to the windings of the foxes' hole, 
With sad, low tones, while thus he spoke, and sent 
Strange moanings to the solitary Pan. 
* Moan, brethren, moan, for we are swallow'd up 
And buried from all godlike exercise 
Of influence benign on planets pale, 390 

And peaceful sway upon man's harvesting, 
And all those acts which Deity supreme 
Doth ease its heart of love in. Moan and wail ; 
Moan, brethren, moan ; for lo, the rebel spheres 
Spin round ; the stars their ancient courses keep ; 
Clouds still with shadowy moisture haunt the earth, 
Still suck their fill of light from sun and moon ; 
Still buds the tree, and still the seashores murmur ; 
There is no death in all the universe, 
No smell of death. — There shall be death. Moan, 
moan ; 400 

Moan, Cybele, moan ; for thy pernicious babes 
Have chang'd a god into an aching palsy. 
Moan, brethren, moan, for I have no strength left ; 
Weak as the reed, weak, feeble as my voice. 
Oh ! Oh ! the pain, the pain of feebleness ; 
Moan, moan, for still I thaw ; or give me help, 
Throw down those imps, and give me victory. 
Let me hear other groans, and trumpets blown 
Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival. 
From the gold peaks of heaven's high-piled clouds ; 
Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir 411 

Of strings in hollow shells ; and there shall be 
Beautiful things made new, for the surprise 
Of the sky-children.' So he feebly ceased. 
With such a poor and sickly-sounding pause, 
Methought I heard some old man of the earth 
Bewailing earthly loss ; nor could my eyes 
And ears act with that unison of sense 
Which marries sweet sound with the grace of form, 
And dolorous accent from a tragic harp 420 



HYPERION: A VISION 423 

With large limb'd visions. More I scrutinized. 

Still fixt he sat beneath the sable trees, 

"Whose arms spread straggling in wild serpent forms, 

With leaves all hush'd ; his awful presence there 

(Now all was silent) gave a deadly lie 

To what I ere while heard : only his lips 

Trembled amid the white curls of his beard ; 

They told the truth, though round the snowy locks 

Hung nobly, as upon the face of heaven 

A mid-day fleece of clouds. Thea arose 430 

And stretcht her white arm through the hollow dark. 

Pointing somewhither : whereat he too rose, 

Like a vast giant, seen by men at sea 

To grow pale from the waves at dull midnight. 

They melted from my sight into the woods ; 

Ere I could turn, Moneta cried, ' These twain 

Are speeding to the families of grief. 

Where, rooft in by black rocks, they waste in pain 

And darkness, for no hope.' And she spake on. 

As ye may read who can unwearied pass 440 

Onward from the antechamber of this dream, 

Where, even at the open doors, awhile 

I must delay, and glean my memory 

Of her high phrase — perhaps no further dare. 

CANTO II 

* Mortal, that thou may'st understand aright, 
I humanize my sayings to thine ear, 
Making comparisons of earthly things ; 
Or thou might'st better listen to the wind. 
Whose language is to thee a barren noise, 
Though it blows legend-laden thro' the trees. 
In melancholy realms big tears are shed, 
More sorrow like to this, and such like woe, 
Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe. 
The Titans fierce, self -hid or prison-bound, 10 

Groan for the old allegiance once more, 



424 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

Listening in their doom for Saturn's voice. 

But one of the whole eagle-brood still keeps 

His sovereignty, and rule, and majesty : 

Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire 

Still sits, still snuffs the incense teeming up 

From Man to the Sun's God — yet insecure. 

For as upon the earth dire prodigies 

Fright and perplex, so also shudders he ; 

Not at dog's howl or gloom-bird's hated screech, 20 

Or the familiar visiting of one 

Upon the first toll of his passing bell, 

Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp ; 

But horrors, portioned to a giant nerve. 

Make great Hyperion ache. His palace bright, 

Bastion' d with pyramids of shining gold. 

And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks, 

Glares a blood-red thro' all the thousand courts, 

Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ; 

And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 30 

Flash angerly ; when he would taste the wreaths 

Of incense breath' d aloft from sacred hills. 

Instead of sweets, his ample palate takes 

Savour of poisonous brass and metals sick ; 

Wherefore when harbour'd in the sleepy "West, 

After the full completion of fair day. 

For rest divine upon exalted couch. 

And slumber in the arms of melody, 

He paces through the pleasant hours of ease, 

With strides colossal, on from hall to hall, 40 

While far within each aisle and deep recess 

His winged minions in close clusters stand 

Amaz'd, and full of fear ; like anxious men, 

Who on a wide plain gather in sad troops. 

When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers. 

Even now where Saturn, rous'd from icy trance, 

Goes step for step with Thea from yon woods, 

Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear. 

Is sloping to the threshold of the West. 



FRAGMENTS 425 

Thither we tend.' Now in clear light I stood, 50 

Reliev'd from the dusk vale. Mnemosyne 

Was sitting on a sqiiare-edg'd polish'd stone, 

That in its lucid depths reflected pure 

Her priestess' garments. My quick eyes ran on 

From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault, 

Through bow'rs of fragrant and enwreathed light, 

And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades. 

Anon rush'd by the bright Hyperion ; 

His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels, 

And gave a roar as if of earthly fire, 6c 

That scar'd away the meek ethereal hours, 

And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared. 

II. FRAGMENTS 



Where 's the Poet ? Show him ! show him, 
Muses nine ! that I may know him 1 
'T is the man who with a man 

Is an equal, be he King, 
Or poorest of the beggar-clan, 

Or any other wondrous thing 
A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato ; 

'T is the man who with a bird. 
Wren, or Eagle, finds his way to 

All its instincts ; he hath heard 
The Lion's roaring, and can tell 

What his horny throat expresseth, 
And to him the Tiger's yell 

Comes articulate and presseth 
On his ear like mother-tongue. 

II 

MODERN LOVE 

And what is love ? It is a doll dress'd up 
For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle ; 



426 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

A thing of soft misnomers, so divine 

That silly youth doth think to make itself 

Divine by loving, and so goes on 

Yawning and doting a whole summer long, 

Till Miss's comb is made a pearl tiara, 

And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots ; 

Then Cleopatra lives at number seven. 

And Antony resides in Brunswick Square. 

Fools ! if some passions high have warm'd the world, 

If Queens and Soldiers have play'd deep for hearts. 

It is no reason why such agonies 

Should be more common than the growth of weeds. 

Fools ! make me whole again that weighty pearl 

The Queen of Egypt melted, and I '11 say 

That ye may love in spite of beaver hats. 



Ill 

FRAGMENT OF 'THE CASTLE BUILDER' 

To-night I' 11 have my friar — let me think 

About my room — I '11 have it in the pink ; 

It should be rich and sombre, and the moon, 

Just in its mid-life in the midst of June 

Should look thro' four large windows and display 

Clear, but for gold-fish vases in the way. 

Their glassy diamonding on Turkish floor ; 

The tapers keep aside, an hour and more, 

To see what else the moon alone can show ; 

While the night-breeze doth softly let us know 

My terrace is well bower'd with oranges. 

Upon the floor the dullest spirit sees 

A guitar-ribband and a lady's glove 

Beside a crumple-leaved tale of love ; 

A tambour-frame, with Venus sleeping there, 

All finish'd but some ringlets of her hair ; 

A viol, bow-strings torn, cross-wise upon 

A glorious folio of Anacreon ; 



FRAGMENTS 427 

A skull upon a mat of roses lying, 

Ink'd purple with a song concerning dying ; 

An hour-glass on the turn, amid the trails 

Of passion-flower ; — just in time there sails 

A cloud across the moon, — the lights bring in I 

And see what more my phantasy can win. 

It is a gorgeous room, but somewhat sad ; 

The draperies are so, as tho' they had 

Been made for Cleopatra's winding-sheet ; 

And opposite the stedfast eye doth meet 

A spacious looking-glass, upon whose face, 

In letters raven-sombre, you may trace 

Old 'Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin.' 

Greek busts and statuary have ever been 

Held, by the finest spirits, fitter far. 

Than vase grotesque and Siamesian jar ; 

Therefore 't is sure a want of Attic taste 

That I should rather love a Gothic waste 

Of eyesight on cinque-coloured potter's clay, 

Than on the marble fairness of old Greece. 

My table -co verlits of Jason's fleece 

And black Numidian sheep- wool should be wrought, 

Gold, black, and heavy, from the Lama brought. 

My ebon sofas should delicious be 

With down from Leda's cygnet progeny. 

My pictures all Salvator's, save a few 

Of Titian's portraiture, and one, though new. 

Of Haydon's in its fresh magnificence. 

My wine — O good ! 't is here at my desire, 

And I must sit to supper with my friar. 



IV 
EXTRACTS FROM AN OPERA 

O ! WERE I one of the Olympian twelve, 
Their godships should pass this into a law, 
That when a man doth set himself in toil 



428 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

After some beauty veiled far away, 

Eacli step he took should make his lady's hand 

More soft, more white, and her fair cheek more fair : 

And for each briar-berry he might eat, 

A kiss should bud upon the tree of love, 

And pulp and ripen richer every hour. 

To melt away upon the traveller's lips. 



DAISY'S SONG 

The sun, with his great eye, 
Sees not so much as I ; 
And the moon, all silver-proud, 
Might as well be in a cloud. 

And O the spring — the spring ! 
I lead the life of a King ! 
Couch'd in the teeming grass, 
I spy each pretty lass. 

I look where no one dares. 
And I stare where no one stares, 
And when the night is nigh. 
Lambs bleat my lullaby. 



FOLLY'S SONG 

When wedding fiddles are a-playing, 

Huzza for folly O I 
And when maidens go a- Maying, 

Huzza, etc. 
"When a milk-pail is upset, 

Huzza, etc. 
And the clothes left in the wet, 

Huzza, etc. 
When the barrel's set abroach. 



FRAGMENTS 429 

Huzza, etc. 
When Kate Eyebrow keeps a coach, 

Huzza, etc. 
When the pig is over-roasted, 

Huzza, etc. 
And the cheese is over-toasted. 

Huzza, etc. 
When Sir Snap is with his lawyer. 

Huzza, etc. 
And Miss Chip has kiss'd the sawyer ; 

Huzza, etc. 



Oh, I am frighten' d with most hateful thoughts ! 
Perhaps her voice is not a nightingale's. 
Perhaps her teeth are not the fairest pearl ; 
Her eye-lashes may be, for aught I know, 
Not longer than the May -fly's small fanhorns ; 
There may not be one dimple on her hand ; 
And freckles many ; ah ! a careless nurse, 
In haste to teach the little thing to walk. 
May have crumpt up a pair of Dian's legs, 
And warpt the ivory of a Juno's neck. 



SONG 

The stranger lighted from his steed. 
And ere he spake a word, 

He seiz'd my lady's lily hand. 
And kiss'd it all unheard. 

The stranger walk'd into the hall, 
And ere he spake a word. 

He kiss'd my lady's cherry lips, 
And kiss'd 'em all unheard. 

The stranger walk'd into the bower, 
But my lady first did go, — 



430 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

Ay hand in hand into the bower, 
Where my Lord's roses blow. 

My lady's maid had a silken scarf, 

And a golden ring had she, 
And a kiss from the stranger, as off he went 

Again on his palfr'ey. 



Asleep ! O sleep a little while, white pearl 
And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee, 
And let me call Heaven's blessing on thine eyes, 
And let me breathe into the happy air, 
That doth enfold and touch thee all about, 
Vows or my slavery, my giving up. 
My sudden adoration, my great love 1 



IIL FAMILIAR VERSES 
STANZAS TO MISS WYLIE 

O COME, Georgiana ! the rose is full blown. 
The riches of Flora are lavishly strown, 
The air is all softness, and crystal the streams ; 
The West is resplendently clothed in beams. 

O come ! let us haste to the freshening shades, 
The quaintly carv'd seats, and the opening glades ; 
Where the faeries are chanting their evening hymns. 
And the last sun-beam the sylph lightly swims. 

And when thou art weary, I '11 find thee a bed 
Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head : 
And there Georgiana I '11 sit at thy feet. 
While my story of love I enraptur'd repeat. 

So fondly I '11 breathe, and so softly I '11 sigh, 
Thou wilt think that some amorous zephyr is nigh ; 



FAMILIAR VERSES 431 

Yet no — as I breathe I will press thy fair knee, 
And then thou wilt know that the sigh comes from 
me. 

Ah! why, dearest girl, should we lose all these blisses? 
That mortal 's a fool who such happiness misses : 
So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand, 
With love-looking eyes, and with voice sweetly 
bland. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 

Dear Reynolds ! As last night I lay in bed, 
There came before my eyes that wonted thread 
Of shapes, and shadows, and remembrances. 
That every other minute vex and please : 
Things all disjointed come from north and south, — 
Two Witch's eyes above a Cherub's mouth, 
Voltaire with casque and shield and habergeon, 
And Alexander with his nightcap on ; 
Old Socrates a-tying his cravat. 
And Hazlitt playing with Miss Edgeworth's cat ; i 
And Junius Brutus, pretty well so so, 
Making the best of 's way towards Soho. 

Few are there who escape these visitings, — 
Perhaps one or two whose lives have patent wings, 
And thro' whose curtains peeps no hellish nose, 
No wild-boar tushes, and no Mermaid's toes ; 
But flowers bursting out with lusty pride, 
And young ^olian harps personify'd ; 
Some Titian colours touch'd into real life, — 
The sacrifice goes on ; the pontiff knife 2. 

Gleams in the Sun, the milk-white heifer lows, 
The pipes go shrilly, the libation flows: 
A white sail shows above the green-head cliff, 
Moves round the point, and throws her anchor stiff 
The mariners join hymn with those on land. 



432 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

You know the Enchanted Castle, — it doth stand 
Upon a rock, on the border of a Lake, 
Nested in trees, which all do seem to shake 
From some old magic-like Urganda's sword. 
O Phoebus ! that I had thy sacred word 30 

To show this Castle, in fair dreaming wise, : 
Unto my friend, while sick and ill he lies ! 

You know it well enough, where it doth seem 
A mossy place, a Merlin's Hall, a dream ; 
You know the clear Lake, and the little Isles, 
The mountains blue, and cold near neighbour rills, 
All which elsewhere are but half animate ; 
There do they look alive to love and hate, 
To smiles and frowns ; they seem a lifted mound 
Above some giant, pulsing underground. 40 

Part of the building was a chosen See, 
Built by a banish'd Santon of Chaldee ; 
The other part, two thousand years from him, 
"Was built by Cuthbert de Saint Aldebrim ; 
Then there 's a little wing, far from the Sun, 
Built by a Lapland Witch turn'd maudlin Nun ; 
And many other juts of aged stone 
Founded with many a mason-devil's groan. 

The doors all look as if they op'd themselves : 
The windows as if latch'd by Fays and Elves, 50 
And from them comes a silver flash of light, 
As from the westward of a Summer's night ; 
Or like a beauteous woman's large blue eyesj 
Gone mad through olden songs and poesies. 

See ! what is coming from the distance dim ! j 

A golden Galley all in silken trim ! * 

Three rows of oars are lightning, moment whiles 
Into the verd'rous bosoms of those isles ; 
Towards the shade, under the Castle wall, 
It comes in silence, — now 't is hidden all. 60 



FAMILIAR VERSES 433 

The Clarion sounds, and from a Postern-gate 
An echo of sweet music doth create 
A fear in the poor Herdsman who doth bring 
His beasts to trouble the enchanted spring, — 
He tells of the sweet music, and the spot, 
To all his friends, and they believe him not. 

O that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake, 
Would all their colours from the sunset take : 
From something of material sublime. 
Rather than shadow our own soul's day-time 70 

In the dark void of night. For in the world 
We jostle, — but my flag is not unfurl'd 
On the Admiral-staff, — and so philosophise 
I dare not yet ! O, never will the prize, 
High reason, and the love of good and ill, 
Be my award ! Things cannot to the will 
Be settled, but they tease us out of thought ; 
Or is it imagination brought 
Beyond its proper bound, yet still confin'd, 
Lost in a sort of Purgatory blind, 80 

Cannot refer to any standard law 
Of either earth or heaven ? It is a flaw 
In happiness, to see beyond our bourn. — 
It forces us in summer skies to mourn. 
It spoils the singing of the Nightingale. 

Dear Reynolds ! I have a mysterious tale, 
And cannot speak it : the first page I read 
Upon a Lampit rock of green sea- weed 
Among the breakers ; 't was a quiet eve, 
The rocks were silent, the wide sea did weave 90 
An untumultuous fringe of silver foam 
Along the flat brown sand ; I was at home 
And should have been most happy, — but I saw 
Too far into the sea, where every maw 
The greater on the less feeds evermore. — 
But I saw too distinct into the core 



434 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

Of an eternal fierce destruction, 

And so from happiness I far was gone. 

Still am I sick of it, and tho' to-day, 

I 've gather'd young spring-leaves, and flowers gay 

Of periwinkle and wild straw^berry, loi 

Still do I that most fierce destruction see, 

The Shark at savage prey, — the Hawk at 

pounce, — 
The gentle Robin, like a Pard or Ounce, 
Ravening a worm, — Away, ye horrid moods ! 
Moods of one's mind ! You know I hate them well. 
You know I 'd sooner be a clapping Bell 
To some Kamschatkan Missionary Church, 
Than with these horrid moods be left i' the lurch. 



A DRAUGHT OF SUNSHINE 

Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port, 

Away with old Hock and Madeira, 
Too earthly ye are for my sport ; 

There's a beverage brighter and clearer. 
Instead of a pitiful rummer, 
My wine overbrims a whole summer ; 

My bowl is the sky. 

And I drink at my eye, 

Till I feel in the brain 

A Delphian pain — 
Then follow, my Caius ! then follow : 

On the green of the hill 

We will drink our fill 

Of golden sunshine, 

Till our brains intertwine 
With the glory and grace of Apollo ! 
God of the Meridian, 

And of the East and West, 
To thee my soul is flown, 

And my body is earthward press' d. — 
It is an awful mission, 
A terrible division ; 



FAMILIAR VERSES 435 

And leaves a gulf austere 
To be fill'd with worldly fear. 
Aye, when the soul is fled 
To high above our head, 
Affrighted do we gaze 
After its airy maze, 
As doth a mother wild, 
When her young infant child 
Is in an eagle's claws — 
And is not this the cause 
Of madness ? — God of Song, 
Thou bearest me along 
Through sights I scarce can bear : 
O let me, let me share 
With the hot lyre and thee. 
The staid Philosophy. 
Temper my lonely hours, 
And let me see thy bowers 
More unalarm'd ! 



AT TEIGNMOUTH 

Here all the summer could I stay, 
For there 's Bishop's teign 
And King's teign 

And Coomb at the clear teign head- 
Where close by the stream 
You may have your cream 

All spread upon barley bread. 

There 's arch Brook 

And there 's larch Brook 
Both turning many a mill ; 

And cooling the drouth 

Of the salmon's mouth 
And fattening his silver gill. 

There is Wild wood, 
A Mild hood 



436 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

To the sheep on the lea o' the down, 

Where the golden furze 

With its green, thin spurs, 
Doth catch at the maiden's gown. 

There is Newton marsh 

With its spear grass harsh — 
A pleasant summer level 

Where the maidens sweet 

Of the Market Street, 
Do meet in the dusk to revel. 

There 's the Barton rich 

With dyke and ditch 
And hedge for the thrush to live in ; 

And the hollow tree 

For the buzzing bee, 
And a bank for the wasp to hive in. 

And O, and O 

The daisies blow 
And the primroses are waken'd, 

And the violets white 

Sit in silver plight. 
And the green bud 's as long as the spike end. 

Then who would go 

Into dark Soho, 
And chatter with dack'd hair'd critics, 

When he can stay 

For the new-mown hay, 
And startle the dappled Prickets ? 



THE DEVON MAID 

Where be ye going, you Devon Maid ? 

And what have ye there in the Basket ? 
Ye tight little fairy just fresh from the dairy. 

Will ye give me some cream if I ask it ? 



FAMILIAR VERSES 437 

I love your Meads, and I love your flowers, 

And I love your junkets mainly, 
But 'hind the door I love kissing more, 

O look not so disdainly. 

I love your hills, and I love your dales, 

And I love your flocks a-bleating — 
But O, on the heather to lie together, 
[ With both our hearts a-beating ! 

I '11 put your Basket all safe in a nook, 
Your shawl I hang up on the willow, 

And we will sigh in the daisy's eye 
And kiss on a grass green pillow. 

ACROSTIC : 
GEORGIANA AUGUSTA KEATS 

Give me your patience, sister, while I frame 

Exact in capitals your golden name ; 

Or sue the fair Apollo and he will 

Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill 

Great love in me for thee and Poesy. 

Imagine not that greatest mastery 

And kingdom over all the Realms of verse, 

Nears more to heaven in aught, than when we nurse 

And surety give to love and Brotherhood. 

Anthropophagi in Othello's mood ; 

Ulysses storm' d and his enchanted belt 

Glow with the Muse, but they are never felt 

Unbosom'd so and so eternal made. 

Such tender incense in their laurel shade 

To all the regent sisters of the Nine 

As this poor offering to you, sister mine. 

Kind sister ! ay, this third name says you are ; 
Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where ; 



438 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

And may it taste to you like good old wine, 

Take you to real happiness and give 

Sons, daughters and a home like honied hive. 



MEG MERRILIES 

Old Meg she was a Gipsy, 

And liv'd upon the Moors : 
Her bed it was the brown heath turf, 

And her house was out of doors. 

Her apples were swart blackberries, 

Her currants pods o' broom ; 
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, 

Her book a churchyard tomb. 

Her Brothers were the craggy hills, 

Her Sisters larchen trees — 
Alone with her great family 

She liv'd as she did please. 

No breakfast had she many a morn, 

No dinner many a noon, 
And 'stead of supper she would stare 

Full hard against the Moon. 

But every morn of woodbine fresh 

She made her garlanding, 
And every night the dark glen Yew 

She wove, and she would sing. 

And with her fingers old and brown 

She plaited Mats o' Rushes, 
And gave them to the Cottagers 

She met among the Bushes, 

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen 
And tall as Amazon : 



FAMILIAR VERSES 439 

An old red blanket coat she wore ; 

A chip hat had she on. 
God rest her aged bones somewhere — 

She died full long agone ! 

A SONG ABOUT MYSELF 

Theke was a naughty Boy, 

A naughty boy was he, 

He would not stop at home, 

He could not quiet be — 

He took 

In his Knapsack 

A Book 

Full of vowels ; 

And a shirt 

With some towels — 

A slight cap 

For night cap — 

A hair brush, 

Comb ditto, 

New Stockings, 

For old ones 

Would split O ! 

This Knapsack, 

Tight at 's back. 

He rivetted close 
And follow'd his Nose 

To the North, 

To the North, 
And follow'd his nose 

To the North. 

There was a naughty boy 

And a naughty boy was he. 
For nothing would he do 
But scribble poetry — 
He took 
An inkstand 



440 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

In his hand, 

And a Pen 

Big as ten 

In the other, 

And away 

In a Pother 

He ran 

To the mountains, 

And fountains 

And ghostes, 

And Postes, 

And witches, 

And ditches. 

And wrote 

In his coat, 

When the weather 

"Was cool, 

Fear of gout. 

And without 

When the weather 

Was warm — 

Och the charm 

When we choose 
To follow one's nose 

To the north. 

To the north, 
To follow one's nose 
To the north. 

There was a naughty boy 

And a naughty boy was he, 
He kept little fishes 
In washing tubs three 

In spite 

Of the might 

Of the Maid, 

Nor afraid 

Of his Granny — good — 

He often would. 



FAMILIAR VERSES 441 

Hurly burly, 

Get up early, 

And go 

By liook or crook 

To the brook, 

And bring home 

Miller's thumb, 

Tittlebat 

Not over fat, 

Minnows small 

As the stall 

Of a glove. 

Not above 

The size 

Of a nice 

Little Baby's 

Little fingers — 

O, he made, 

'T was his trade. 
Of Fish a pretty Kettle 

A Kettle — 

A Kettle 
Of Fish, a pretty Kettle, 

A Kettle ! 

There was a naughty Boy, 

And a naughty Boy was he, 
He ran away to Scotland 
The people for to see — 

Then he found 

That the ground 

Was as hard, 

That a yard 

Was as long, 

That a song 

Was as merry, 

That a cherry 

Was as red — 

That lead 



442 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

Was as weighty, 

That fourscore 

Was as eighty, 

That a door 

Was as wooden 

As in England — 
So he stood in his shoes 

And he wonder'd, 

He wonder'd, 
He stood in his shoes 

And he wonder'd. 



TO THOMAS KEATS 
Belantbee (for Ballantree) July 10 [1818.] 

Ah ! ken ye what I met the day 

Out oure the Mountains 
A coming down by craggies gray 

An mossie fountains — 
Ah goud-hair'd Marie yeve I pray 

Ane minute's guessing — 
For that I met upon the way 

Is past expressing. 
As I stood where a rocky brig 

A torrent crosses 
I spied upon a misty rig 

A troup o' Horses — 
And as they trotted down the glen 

I sped to meet them 
To see if I might know the Men 

To stop and greet them. 
First Willie on his sleek mare came 

At canting gallop, 
His long hair rustled like a flame 

On board a shallop, 
Then came his brother Rab and then 

Young Peggy's Mither 



FAMILIAR VERSES 443 

And Peggy too — adown the glen 

They went togither — 
I saw her wrappit in her hood 

Frae wind and raining — 
Her cheek was flush wi' timid blood 

Twixt growth and waning — 
She tiirn'd her dazed eyes full oft 

For there her Brithers 
Came riding with her Bridegroom soft 

And mony ithers. 
Young Tarn came up and eyed me quick 

With reddened cheek — 
Braw Tom was daffed like a chick — 

He couldna speak — 
Ah, Marie, they are all gane hame 

Through blustering weather 
An' every heart is full on flame 

An' light as feather. 
Ah ! Marie, they are all gone hame 

Frae happy wadding. 
Whilst I — Ah is it not a shame ? 

Sad tears am shedding. 

THE GADFLY 

All gentle folks who owe a grudge 

To any living thing 
Open your ears and stay your t(r)udge 

Whilst I in dudgeon sing. 

The Gadfly he hath stung me sore — 

O may he ne'er sting you ! 
But we have many a horrid bore, — 

He may sting black and blue. 

Has any here an old gray Mare 
With three legs all her store. 



444 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

O put it to her Buttocks bare 
And straight she '11 run on four. 

Has any here a Lawyer suit 

Of 1743, 
Take Lawyer's nose and put it to 't 

And you the end will see. 

Is there a Man in Parliament 
Dum(b)founder'd in his speech, 

O let his neighbour make a rent 
And put one in his breech. 

O Lowther how much better thou 
Hadst figur'd t' other day 

When to the folks thou mad'st a bow 
And hadst no more to say. 

If lucky Gadfly had but ta'en 

His seat . . . 
And put thee to a little pain 

To save thee from a worse. 

Better than Southey it had been, 

Better than Mr. D 

Better than Wordsworth, too, I ween, 

Better than Mr. V . 

Forgive me, pray, good people all, 

For deviating so — 
In spirit sure I had a call — 

And now I on will go. 

Has any here a daughter fair 
Too fond of reading novels, 

Too apt to fall in love with care 
And charming Mister Lovels, 



FAMILIAR VERSES 445 

put a Gadfly to that thing 
She keeps so white and pert — 

1 mean the finger for the ring, 
And it will breed a wort. 

Has any here a pious spouse 

Who seven times a day 
Scolds as King David pray'd, to chouse 

And have her holy way — 

let a Gadfly's little sting 
Persuade her sacred tongue 

That noises are a common thing, 
But that her bell has rung. 

And as this is the summum bo- 
num of all conquering, 

1 leave ' withouten wordes mo' 
The Gadfly's little sting. 



ON HEARING THE BAG-PIPE AND SEEING ' THE 
STRANGER' PLAYED AT INVERARY 

Of late two dainties were before me plac'd 
Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innocent. 
From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent 

That Gods might know my own particular taste : 

First the soft Bag-pipe mourn'd with zealous haste. 
The Stranger next with head on bosom bent 
Sigh'd ; rueful again the piteous Bag-pipe went. 

Again the Stranger sighings fresh did waste. 

O Bag-pipe, thou didst steal my heart away — 
O Stranger, thou my nerves from Pipe didst 
charm — 

O Bag-pipe thou didst re-assert thy sway — 
Again thou. Stranger, gav'st me fresh alarm — 

Alas ! I could not choose. Ah ! my poor heart 

Mum chance art thou with both oblig'd to part. 



446 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

LINES WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS AFTER A 
VISIT TO BURNS'S COUNTRY 

There is a charm in footing slow across a silent 

plain, 
Where patriot battle has been fought, where glory- 
had the gain ; 
There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids old 

have been, 
Where mantles gray have rustled by and swept the 

nettles green ; 
There is Joy in every spot made known by times of 

old, 
New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times 

be told ; 
There is a deeper Joy than all, more solemn in the 

heart, 
More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine 

a smart, 
When weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant 

turf, 
Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron scurf, 
Toward the Castle or the Cot, where long ago was 

born II 

One who was great through mortal days, and died 

of fame unshorn. 
Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they are 

far away ; 
Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern, — the Sun 

may hear his Lay ; 
Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows 

clear. 
But their low voices are not heard, though come on 

travels drear ; 
Blood-red the s\m may set behind black mountain 

peaks ; 
Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in Caves 

and weedy creeks ; 



FAMILIAR VERSES 447 

Eagles may seem to sleep wing- wide upon the Air ; 
Ring-doves may fly conviils'd across to some higli- 

cedar'd lair ; 20 

But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the 

ground, 
As Palmer's, that with weariness, mid-desert shrine 

hath found. 

At such a time the soul 's a child, in childhood is 

the brain ; 
Forgotten is the worldly heart — alone, it heats in 

vain. — 
Aye, if a Madman could have leave to pass a health- 
ful day 
To tell his forehead's swoon and faint when first 

began decay, 
He might make tremble many a one whose spirit had 

gone forth 
To find a Bard's low cradle-place about the silent 

North. 
Scanty the hour and few the steps beyond the bourn 

of Care, 
Beyond the sweet and bitter world, — beyond it 

unaware ! 30 

Scanty the hour and few the steps, because a longer 

stay 
Would bar return, and make a man forget his mortal 

way: 
O horrible! to lose the sight of well remember'd 

face, 
Of Brother's eyes, of Sister's brow — constant to 

every place ; 
Filling the Air, as on we move, with Portraiture 

intense ; 
More warm than those heroic tints that pain a 

Painter's sense. 
When shapes of old come striding by, and visages 

of old. 



448 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

Locks shining black, liair scanty gray, and passions 

manifold. 
No, no, that horror cannot be, for at the cable's 

length 
Man feels the gentle anchor pull and gladdens in its 

strength : — 40 " 

One hour, half-idiot, he stands by mossy water-fall. 
But in the very next he reads his soul's Memorial : — 
He reads it on the mountain's height, where chance 

he may sit down 
Upon rough marble diadem — that hill's eternal 

Crown. 
Yet be his Anchor e'er so fast, room is there for a 

prayer 
That man may never lose his Mind on Mountains 

black and bare ; 
That he may stray league after league some great 

birthplace to find 
And keep his vision clear from speck, his inward 

sight unblind. 



MRS. CAMERON AND BEN NEVIS 

After all there was one Mrs. Cameron of 50 years of age 
and the fattest woman in all Inverness-shire who got up this 
Mountain some few years ago — true she had her servants — 
but then she had herself. She ought to have hired Sisyphus, 
— 'Up the high hill he heaves a huge round — Mrs. Cam- 
eron.' 'T is said a little conversation took place between the 
mountain and the Lady. After taking a glass of Whisky as 
she was tolerably seated at ease she thus began — 

MRS. C. 

Upon my life Sir Nevis I am piqued 
That I have so far panted tugg'd and reek'd 
To do an honor to your old bald pate 
And now am sitting on you j ust to bait, 
Without your paying me one compliment. 



FAMILIAR VERSES 449 

Alas, 't is so with all, when our intent 
Is plain, and in the eye of all Mankind 
We fair ones show a preference, too blind ! 
You Gentle man immediately turn tail — 

let me then my hapless fate bewail ! lo 
Ungrateful Baldpate have I not disdain'd 

The pleasant Valleys — have I not madbrain'd 

Deserted all my Pickles and preserves 

My China closet too — with wretched Nerves 

To boot — say, wretched ingrate, have I not 

Left my soft cushion chair and caudle pot ? 

'T is true I had no corns — no ! thank the fates 

My Shoemaker was always Mr, Bates. 

And if not Mr. Bates why I 'm not old ! 

Still dumb ungrateful Nevis — still so cold ! 20 

Here the Lady took some more whisky and was putting 
even more to her lips when she dashed it to the Ground, 
for the Moimtain began to grumble — which continued for 
a few minutes before he thus began — 

BEN NEVIS 

What whining bit of tongue and Mouth thus dares 

Disturb my slumber of a thousand years ? 

Even so long my sleep has been secure — 

And to be so awak'd I '11 not endure. 

Oh pain — for since the Eagle's earliest scream 

1 've had a damn'd confounded ugly dream, 

A Nightmare sure. What ! Madam, was it you ? 
It cannot be ! My old eyes are not true 1 
Red-Crag, my Spectacles ! Now let me see ! 
Good Heavens! Lady, how the gemini 30 

Did you get here ? O, I shall split my sides ! 
I shall earthquake — 



Sweet Nevis do not quake, for though I love 
Your honest Countenance all things above. 



450 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

Truly I should not like to be convey' d 
So far into your Bosom — gentle Maid 
Loves not too rough a treatment, gentle Sir — 
Pray thee be calm and do not quake nor stir 
No, not a Stone, or I shall go in fits — 

BEN NEVIS 

I must — I shall — I meet not such tit bits — 40 

I meet not such sweet creatures every day — 
By my old nightcap night and day 
I must have one sweet Buss — I must and shall ! 
Red Crag ! — What ! Madam, can you then re- 
pent 
Of all the toil and vigour you have spent 
To see Ben Nevis and to touch his nose ? 
Red Crag I say ! O I must have them close ! 
Red Crag, there lies beneath my farthest toe 
A vein of Sulphur — go, dear Red Crag, go — 
And rub your flinty back against it — budge ! 50 
Dear Madam, I must kiss you, faith I must ! 
I must embrace you with my dearest gust ! 
Block-head, d' ye hear ! — Block-head, I '11 make her 

feel. 
There lies beneath my east leg's northern heel 
A cave of young earth dragons ; — well my boy 
Go thither quick and so complete my joy. 
Take you a bundle of the largest pines. 
And when the sun on fiercest Phosphor shines, 
Fire them and ram them in the Dragon's nest, 
Then will the dragons fry and fizz their best 60 

Until ten thousand now no bigger than 
Poor alligators — poor things of one span — 
Will each one swell to twice ten times the size 
Of northern whale — then for the tender prize — 
The moment then — for then will Red Crag rub 
His flinty back — and I shall kiss and snub 
And press my dainty morsel to my breast. 
Block-head make haste ! 



FAMILIAR VERSES 451 

O Muses, weep the rest — 
The Lady fainted and he thought her dead ; 
So pulled the clouds again about his head 70 

And went to sleep again ; soon she was rous'd 
By her affrighted servants — next day, hous'd 
Safe on the lowly ground she bless'd her fate 
That fainting fit was not delayed too late. 

But what surprised me above all is how the lady got 
down again. I felt it horribly. 'T was the most vile de- 
scent — shook me all to pieces. 

SHARING EVE'S APPLE 

O BLUSH not so ! O blush not so ! 

Or I shall think you knowing ; 
And if you smile the blushing while, 

Then maidenheads are going. 

There 's a blush for won't, and a blush for shan't, 

And a blush for having done it : 
There 's a blush for thought and a blush for nought, 

And a blush for just begun it. 

O sigh not so ! O sigh not so ! 

For it sounds of Eve's sweet Pippin ; 
By these loosen'd lips you have tasted the pips 

And fought in an amorous nipping. 

Will you play once more at nice-cut-core, 

For it only will last our youth out, 
And we have the prime of the kissing time, 

We have not one sweet tooth out. 

There 's a sigh for yes, and a sigh for no, 

And a sigh for I can't bear it! 
O what can be done, shall we stay or run ? 

O cut the sweet apple and share it ! 



452 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 



A PROPHECY 
TO GEORGE KEATS IN AMERICA 

'T IS the witching time of night, 

Orbed is the moon and bright, 

And the Stars they glisten, glisten. 

Seeming with bright eyes to listen. 

For what listen they ? 

For a song and for a charm, 

See they glisten in alarm, 

And the Moon is waxing warm 

To hear what I shall say. 

Moon ! keep wide thy golden ears — 

Hearken, Stars ! and hearken, Spheres ! — 

Hearken, thou eternal Sky ! 

I sing an infant's Lullaby, 

O pretty lullaby ! 

Listen, listen, listen, listen, 

Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten, 

And hear my Lullaby ! 

Though the Rushes, that will make 

Its cradle, still are in the lake — 

Though the linen that will be 

Its swathe, is on the cotton tree — 

Though the woollen that will keep 

It warm, is on the silly sheep — 

Listen, Starlight, listen, listen. 

Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten, 

And hear my lullaby ! 

Child, I see thee ! Child, I 've found thee 

Midst of the quiet all around thee ! 

Child, I see thee ! Child, I spy thee 1 

And thy mother sweet is nigh thee I 

Child, I know thee ! Child no more, 

But a Poet evermore ! 

See, see, the Lyre, the Lyre, 

In a flame of fire, 



FAMILIAR VERSES 453 

Upon the little cradle's top 

Flaring, flaring, flaring, 

Past the eyesight's bearing. 

Awake it from its sleep, 

And see if it can keep ' 

Its eyes upon the blaze — 

Amaze, amaze ! 

It stares, it stares, it stares, 

It dares what no one dares ! 

It lifts its little hand into the flame 

Unharm'd, and on the strings 

Paddles a little tune, and sings, 

With dumb endeavour sweetly — 

Bard art thou completely 1 

Little child 

O' th' western wild, 
Bard art thou completely ! 
Sweetly with dumb endeavour. 
A poet now or never. 

Little child 

O' th' western wild, 
A Poet now or never ! 



A LITLE EXTEMPORE 

When they were come into the Faery's Court 
They rang — no one at home — all gone to sport 
And dance and kiss and love as faeries do 
For Faeries be as humans lovers true. 
Amid the woods they were so lone and wild. 
Where even the Robin feels himself exil'd. 
And where the very brooks, as if afraid, 
Hurry along to some less magic shade. 
' No one at home ! ' the fretful Princess cry'd ; 
* And all for nothing such a dreary ride, 
And all for nothing my new diamond cross ; 
No one to see my Persian feathers toss. 
No one to see my Ape, my Dwarf, my Fool, 
Or how I pace my Otaheitan mule. 



454 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

Ape, Dwarf, and Fool, why stand you gaping there, 

Burst the door open, quick — or I declare 

I '11 switch you soundly and in pieces tear.' 

The Dwarf began to tremble, and the Ape] 

Star'd at the F®ol, the Fool was all agape. 

The Princess grasp'd her switch, but just in time 20 

The dwarf with piteous face began to rhyme. 

* O mighty Princess, did you ne'er hear tell 

What your poor servants know but too too well ? 

Know you the three great crimes in Faeryland ? 

The first, alas ! poor Dwarf, I understand, 

I made a whipstock of a faery's wand ; 

The next is snoring in their company ; 

The next, the last, the direst of the three. 

Is making free when they are not at home. 

I was a Prince — a baby prince — my doom, 30 

You see, I made a whipstock of a wand. 

My top has henceforth slept in faery land. 

He was a Prince, the Fool, a grown-up Prince, 

But he has never been a King's son since 

He fell a snoring at a faery Ball. 

Yon poor Ape was a Prince, and he poor thing 

Picklock'd a faery's boudoir — now no king 

But ape — so pray your highness stay awhile, 

'T is sooth indeed, we know it to our sorrow — 

Persist and you may be an ape to-morrow.' 40 

While the Dwarf spake, the Princess, all for spite, 

Peel'd the brown hazel twig to lily white, 

Clench'd her small teeth, and held her lips apart, 

Try'd to look unconcern'd with beating heart. 

They saw her highness had made up her mind, 

A-quavering like the reeds before the wind — 

And they had had it, but O happy chance ! 

The Ape for very fear began to dance 

And grinn'd as all his ugliness did ache — 

She staid her vixen fingers for his sake, 50 

He was so very ugly : then she took 

Her pocket-mirror and began to look 



FAMILIAR VERSES 455 

First at herself and then at him, and then 

She smil'd at her own beauteous face again. 

Yet for all this — for all her pretty face — 

She took it in her head to see the place. 

Women gain little from experience 

Either in Lovers, husbands, or expense. 

The more their beauty the more fortune too — 

Beauty before the wide world never knew — 60 

So each fair reasons — tho' it oft miscarries. 

She thought her pretty face would please the faeries. 

' My darling Ape, I wont whip you to-day, 

Give me the Picklock sirrah and go play.' 

They all three wept but counsel was as vain 

As crying cup biddy to drops of rain. 

Yet lingering by did the sad Ape forth draw 

The Picklock from the Pocket in his Jaw. 

The Princess took it, and dismounting straight 

Tripp'd in blue silver' d slippers to the gate 70 

And touch'd the wards, the Door full courteous 

Opened — she enter'd with her servants three. 

Again it clos'd and there was nothing seen 

But the Mule grazing on the herbage green. 

End of Canto XII. 



CANTO THE XIII 

The Mule no sooner saw himself alone 

Than he prick'd up his Ears — and said ' well done ; 

At least unhappy Prince I may be free — 

No more a Princess shall side-saddle me. 

King of Otaheite — tho' a Mule, 

"Aye, every inch a King" — tho' "Fortune's 

Fool," 
Well done — for by what Mr. Dwarf y said 

1 would not give a sixpence for her head.' 
Even as he spake he trotted in high glee 

To the knotty side of an old Pollard tree, 10 

And rubb'd his sides against the mossed bark 



456 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

Till his Girths burst and left him naked stark 
Except his Bridle — how get rid of that 
Buckled and tied with many a twist and plait. 
At last it struck him to pretend to sleep, 
And then the thievish Monkeys down would creep 
And filch the unpleasant trammels quite away. 
No sooner thought of than adown he lay, 
Shamm'd a good snore — the Monkey-men descended 
And whom they thought to injure they befriended. 
They hung his Bridle on a topmost bough 21 

And off he went run, trot, or anyhow — 



SPENSERIAN STANZAS ON CHARLES ARMITAGE 
BROWN 

He is to weet a melancholy Carle : 
Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair, 
As hath the seeded thistle when in parle 
It holds the Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair 
Its light balloons into the summer air ; 
There to his beard had not begun to bloom. 
No brush had touch'd his chin, or razor sheer ; 
No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom. 
But new he was, and bright, as scarf from Persian 
loom, 

Ne cared he for wine, or half-and-half ; 
Ne cared he for fish, or flesh, or fowl ; 
And sauces held he worthless as the chaff ; 
He 's deigned the swineherd at the wassail bowl ; 
Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl ; 
Ne with sly Lemans in the scorner's chair ; 
But after water-brooks this Pilgrim's soul 
Panted, and all his food was woodland air ; 
Though he would of t-times feast on gill iflowers rare. 

The slang of cities in no wise he knew ; 
Tipping the wink to him was heathen Greek ; 



FAMILIAR VERSES 457 

He sipp'd no 'olden Tom,' or 'ruin blue,' 
Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meek 
By many a Damsel hoarse, and rouge of cheek ; 
Nor did he know each aged Watchman's beat, 
Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek 
For curled Jewesses, with ankles neat, 
Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their 
feet. 

TWO OR THREE POSIES 

Two or three Posies 

With two or three simples — 

Two or three Noses 

With two or three pimples — 

Two or three wise men 

And two or three ninny's — 

Two or three purses 

And two or three guineas — 

Two or three raps 

At two or three doors — 

Two or three naps 

Of two or three hours — 

Two or three Cats 

And two or three mice — 

Two or three sprats 

At a very great price — 

Two or three sandies ^ 

And two or three tabbies — 

Two or three dandies 

And two Mrs. mum ! 

Two or three Smiles 

And two or three frowns — 

Two or three Miles 

To two or three towns — 

Two or three pegs 

For two or three bonnets — 

Two or three dove eggs 

To hatch into sonnets — 



458 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 



A PARTY OF LOVERS 

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes, 

Nibble their toast, and cool their tea with sighs, 

Or else forget the purpose of the night, 

Forget their tea — forget their appetite. 

See with cross'd arms they sit — ah ! happy crew, 

The fire is going out and no one rings 

For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings. 

A fly is in the milk-pot — must he die 

By a humane society ? 
No, no ; there Mr. Werter takes his spoon, 
Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo ! soon 
The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark, 
Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark. 

Arise ! take snuffers by the handle, 
There's a large cauliflower in each candle. 
A winding-sheet, ah me ! I must away 
To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay. 
* Alas, my friend ! your coat sits very well ; 
Where may your Taylor live ? ' 'I may not tell. 

pardon me — I 'm absent now and then. 
Where niiglit my Taylorjive ? I say again 

1 cannot tell, let me no more be teaz'd — 

He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleas'd. 



TO GEORGE KEATS 
WRITTEN IN SICKNESS 

Brother, belov'd if health shall smile again, 
Upon this wasted form and fever' d cheek : 
If e'er returning vigour bid these weak 

And languid limbs their gladsome strength re- 
gain. 

Well may thy brow the placid glow retain 
Of sweet content and thy pleas'd eye may speak 



FAMILIAR VERSES 459 

The conscious self applause, but should I seek 
To utter what this heart can feel, — Ah ! vain 
Were the attempt! Yet kindest friends while 
o'er 

My couch ye bend, and watch with tenderness 
The being whom your cares could e'en restore, 

From the cold grasp of Death, say can you guess 

The feelings which these lips can ne'er express ? 
Feelings, deep fix'd in grateful memory's store. 



' ON OXFORD 

The Gothic looks solemn, 

The plain Doric column 
Supports an old Bishop and Crozier ; 

The mouldering arch. 

Shaded o'er by a larch, 
Stands next door to Wilson the Hosier. 

Vice, — that is, by turns, — 

O'er pale faces mourns 
The black tassell'd trencher and common hat ; 

The charity boy sings, 

The Steeple-bell rings 
And as for the Chancellor — dominat. 

There are plenty of trees, 

And plenty of ease. 
And plenty of fat deer for Parsons ; 

And when it is venison, 

Short is the benison, — 
Then each on a leg or thigh fastens. 



TO A CAT 

Cat! who has[t] pass'd thy grand clima[c]teric, 
How many mice and rats hast in thy days 
Destroy'd ? — How many tit-bits stolen ? Gaze 



46o SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 

With those bright languid segments green, and 

prick 
Those velvet ears — but pr'ythee do not stick 

Thy latent talons in me — and upraise 

Thy gentle mew — and tell me all thy frays 
Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick : 
Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists 

For all the wheezy asthma, — and for all 
Thy tail's tip is nick'd off — and though the fists 

Of many a maid has given thee many a maul, 
Still is that fur as soft as when the lists 

In youth thou enter'dst on glass-bottled wall. 



INDEXES 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

A THING of beauty is a joy forever, 78. 

After dark vapours have oppress'd our plains, 62. 

Ah ! ken ye what I met the day, 442. 

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, 240. 

Ah ! woe is me ! poor silver wing ! 246. 

All gentle folks who owe a grudge, 443. 

And what is love ? It is a doll dress'd up, 425. 

As from the darkening gloom a silver dove, 20. 

As Hermes once took to his feathers light, 240. 

As late I rambled in the happy fields, 21. 

Asleep ! O sleep a little while, white pearl ! 430. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 218. 
Blue ! 'T is the life of heaven, — the domain, 75. 
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art, 410. 
Brother belov'd, if health shall smile again, 458. 
Byron ! how sweetly sad thy melody ! 3. 

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, 2. 
Cat ! who has[t] pass'd thy grand climacteric, 459. 
Chief of organic numbers, 67. 
Come hither all sweet maidens soberly, 66. 

Dear Reynolds ! as last night I lay in bed, 431. 
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale, 352. 

Ever let the Fancy roam, 216. 

Fair Isabel, poor simjjle Isabel, 192. 

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy, 248. 

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave, 411. 

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year, 76. 

Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear, 12. 

Full many a dreary hour have I past, 41. 

Give me a golden pen and let me lean, 14. 
Give me your patience, sister, while I frame, 437. 
Glory and loveliness have pass'd away, 64. 
God of the golden-bow, 11. 



464 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone, 58. 
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning, 57. 

Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs, 46. 

Hadst thou liv'd in days of old, 18. 

Happy, happy glowing fire ! 242. 

Happy is England ! I could be content, 61. 

Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem, 6. 

Haydon ! forgive me that I cannot speak, 63. 

He is to weet a melancholy Carle, 456. 

Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid, 211. 

Hence, Burgundy, Claret, and Port, 434. 

Here all the summer could I stay, 435. 

High-mindedness, a jealousy for good, 58. 

How fever'd is that man, who cannot look, 247. 

How many bards gild the lapses of time ! 13. 

Hush ! hush ! tread softly ! hush, hush, my dear ! 210. 

I cry your mercy — pity — love ! — aye, love, 381. 

I had a dove and the sweet dove died, 219. 

I stood tiptoe upon a little hill, 22. 

If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd, 251. 

If shame can on a soldier's vein-swoU'n front, 340. 

In a drear-nighted December, 59. 

In after-time, a sage of mickle lore, 14. • 

In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool, 382. 

In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch, 153. 

In thy western halls of gold, 10. 

It keeps eternal whisperings around, 64. 

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there, 13. 
King of the stormy sea, 160. 

Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry, 46. 

Many the wonders I this day have seen, 45. 
Mother of Hermes ! and still youthful Maia, 209. 
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, 15. 
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains, 251. 
My spirit is too weak — mortality, 03. 

Nature withheld Cassandra in the skies, 215. 

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist, 220. 

No ! those days are gone away, 70. 

Not Aladdin magiau, 213. 

Now morning from her orient chamber came, 1. 

Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance, 59. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 465 

O Arethusa, peerless nymph ! why fear, 131. 

O blush not so ! O blush not so, 451. 

O Chatterton ! how very sad thy fate, 2. 

come Georgiana ! the rose is full blown, 430. 

O Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung, 249. 

O golden-tongued Romance, with serene lute ! 69. 

O, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts, 429. 

O soft embalmer of the still midnight, 248. 

O Solitude ! if I must with thee dwell, 20. 

O Sorrow, 167. 

O that a week could be an age, and we, 76. 

O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind, 75. 

O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang, 85. 

O ! were I one of the Olympian twelve, 427. 

Of late two dainties were before me plac'd, 445. 

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning, 53. 

Oh ! how I love, on a fair summer's eve, 22. 

Old Meg she was a Gipsy, 438. 

One morn before me were three figures seen, 236. 

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes, 458. 
Physician Nature ! let my spirit blood 1 238. 

Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud, 214. 

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 221. 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 377. 

Shed no tear — O shed no tear, 246. 

Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals, 57. 

So, I am safe emerged from these broils ! 275. 

Son of the old moon-mountains African ! 72. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, G9. 

Spenser ! a jealous honourer of thine, 72. 

Spirit here that reignest ! 73. 

Standing aloof in giant ignorance, 209. 

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, 15. 

The church bells toll a melancholy round, 60. 

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone, 379. 

The Gothic looks solemn, 459. 

The poetry of earth is never dead, 61. 

The stranger lighted from his steed, 429. 

The sun, with his great eye, 428. 

The Town, the churchyard, and the setting sun, 211. 

There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain, 446. 

There was a naughty Boy, 439. 

Think not of it, sweet one, so, 05. 

This mortal body of a thousand days, 212. 



466 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

This pleasant tale is like a little copse, 62. 

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, 234. 

Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb, 215. 

'Tis the witching time of night, 452. 

To-night I '11 have my friar — let me think, 426. 

To one who has been long in city pent, 21. 

Two or three Posies, 457. 

Unfelt, unheard, imseen, 65. 

Upon a Sabbath-day it fell, 348. 

Upon a time, before the faery broods, 254. 

Upon my Life, Sir Nevis, I am piqued, 448. 

Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow, 74. 

What can I do to drive away, 379. 

What is more gentle than a wind in summer ? 29. 

What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state, 8. 

What though, while the wonders of nature exploring, 5. 

When by my solitary hearth I sit, 8. 

When I have fears that I may cease to be, 67. 

When they were come into the Faery's Court, 453. 

When wedding fiddles are a-playing, 428. 

Where be ye going, you Devon maid ? 436. 

Where 's the Poet ? show him ! show him, 425. 

Who loves to peer up at the morning sun, 6G. 

Who, who from Dian's feast would be away ? 179. 

Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will tell, 238. 

Woman ! when I behold thee 'flippant, vain, 3. 

Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake, 48. 



INDEX OF TITLES 

[The titles of major works and general divisions are set in 

SMALL CAPITALS.] 

AcEOSTic : Georgiana Augusta Wylie, 437. 

Addressed to Benjamin Robert Haydon, 57. 

' Ah ! woe is me ! poor silver-wing ! ' 246. 

AilsaRock, To, 211. 

Apollo, H3rmn to, 11. 

ApoUo, Ode to, 10. 

' Asleep ! O sleep a little while, white pearl ! ' 430. 

At Fingal's Cave, 213. 

At Teignmouth, 435. 

Autumn, To, 377. 

Bagpipe, On Hearing the, and Seeing ' The Stranger,' 445. 

' Bards of Passion and of Mirth,' 218. 

Beaumont and Fletcher's Works, Song written on a blank page in, 

73. 
Belle Dame sans Merci, La, 240. 
Ben Nevis, Mrs. Cameron and, 448. 
Ben Nevis, Written upon the Top of, 214. 
Brawne, Fanny, Verses to, 379. 
Brother George, Epistle to my, 41. 
Brother George, To my, 45. 
Brothers, To my, 57. 

Brown, Charles Armitage, Spenserian Stanzas on, 456. 
Burns, On Visiting the Tomb of, 120. 
Byron, To, 3. 

Calidore : a Fragment, 48. 

Cameron, Mrs. , and Ben Nevis, 448. 

Cap and Bells, The, 382. 

' Castle Builder, The,' Fragment of, 426. 

Cat, To a, 459. 

Chapman's Homer, On First Looking into, 15. 

Chatterton, To, 2. 

Chaucer's Tale of ' The Floure and the Lefe,' Written on the blank 

space at the end of, 62. 
Chorus of Fairies, 242. 



468 INDEX OF TITLES 

Clarke, Charles Cowden, Epistle to, 53. 
Cottage where Burns was born, Written in the, 212. 
Curious Shell, and a Copy of Verses from the Same Ladies, On re- 
ceiving a, 6. 

Daisy's Song, 428. 
Death, On, 1. 
Devon Maid, The, 436. 
Dramas, 275. 

Draught of Sunshine, A, 434. 

Dream, A, after reading Dante's Episode of Paolo and Francesca, 
240. 

Early Poems, 1. 

Elgin Marbles, On Seeing the, 63. 

Endyjuon, 77. 

Epistles : 

To Charles Cowden Clarke, 53. 

To George Felton Mathew, 15. 

To John Hamilton Reynolds, 431. 

To my Brother George, 41. 
Eve of St. Agnes, The, 221. 
Eve of St. Mark, The, 348. 
Eve's Apple, Sharing, 451. 
Extempore, A Little, 453. 
Extracts from an Opera, 427. 

Faery Songs, 246. 
Fairies, Chorus of, 242. 
Fame, On, 247. 
Fame, Another On, 248. 
Familiar Verses, 430. 
Fancy, 216. 
Faimy, Lines to, 379. 
Fanny, Ode to, 238. 
Fanny, To, 381. 
Fingal's Cave, At, 213. 
Folly's Song, 428. 
Fragments : 

Calidore, 48. 

Extracts from an Opera, 427. 

King Stephen, 340. 

Modern Love, 425. 

Of an Ode to Maia, 209. 

The Castle Builder, 42G. 

' Welcome joy and welcome sorrow,' 74. 

' Where 's the Poet ? show him ! show him ! ' 425. 
Friend, To a, who sent me some Roses, 21. 



INDEX OF TITLES 469 



G. A. W., To, 59. 

Gadfly, The, 443. 

George, Epistle to my Brother, 41. 
George, To my Brother, 45. 
Grasshopper and Cricket, On the, 61. 
Grecian Urn, Ode on a, 234. 

Haydon, Benjamin Robert, Addressed to, 57. 

Haydon, To, 63. 

Highlands, Lines written in the, after a Visit to Burns's Country, 446. 

Homer, To, 209. 

Hope, To, 8. 

Human Seasons, The, 76. 

Hunt, Leigh, To, 64. 

Hunt, Mr. Leigh, left Prison, Written on the Day that, 8. 

Hunt's, Leigh, Poem, ' The Story of Rimini,' On, 66. 

Hymn to Apollo, 11. 

Hyperion : A Fragment, 352. 

Hyperion : A Vision, 411. 

' I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,' 22. 

Imitation of Spenser, 1. 

In Answer to a Sonnet by J. H. Reynolds, 75. 

Indolence, Ode on, 236. 

Induction to a Poem, Specimen of an, 46. 

Isabella, or the Pot of Basil, 192. 

Keats, George, To : Written in Sickness, 458. 
Keats, To Thomas, 442. 

King Lear once again. On Sitting down to read, 69. 
King Stephen : A Dramatic Fragment, 340. 
Kosciusko, To, 58. 

La Belle Dame sans Merci, 240. 

Ladies, To some, 5. 

Lady seen for a Few Moments at Vauxhall, To a, 215. 

Lamia, 254. 

Last Sonnet, The, 410. 

Laurel Crown, To a Yoimg Lady who sent me a, 12. 

Leander, On a Picture of, 66. 

Leaving Some Friends at an Early Hour, On, 14. 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern, 69. 

Lines to Fanny, 379. 

Lines : ' Unfelt, unseen, unheard,' 65. 

Lines written in the Highlands, after a Visit to Burns's Country, 446. 

Little Extempore, A, 453. 

Lock of Milton's Hair, On Seeing a, 67. 

Lovers, A Party of, 458. 



470 INDEX OF TITLES 

Mala, Fragment of an Ode to, 209. 
Mathew, George Felton, Epistle to, 15. 
Meg Merrilies, 438. 
Melancholy, Ode on, 220. 
Mermaid Tavern, Lines on the, 69. 
Milton's Hair, On Seeing a Lock of, 67. 
Modern Love, 425. 

Nightingale, Ode to a, 251. 
Nile, To the, 72. 

' O, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts ! ' 429. 

' O ! were I one of the Olympian twelve,' 427. 

Ode : ' Bards of Passion and of Mirth,' 218. 

Ode on a Grecian Urn, 234. 

Ode on Indolence, 236. 

Ode on Melancholy, 220. 

Ode to a Nightingale, 251. 

Ode to Apollo, 10. 

Ode to Fanny, 238. 

Ode to Maia, Fragment of an, 209. 

Ode to Psyche, 249. 

On a Picture of Leander, 66. 

On Death, 2. 

On Fame, 247, 248. 

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer, 15. 

On Hearing the Bagpipe, and Seeing ' The Stranger ' played at Inve- 

rary, 445. 
On Leaving Some Friends at an Early Hour, 14. 
On Leigh Hunt's Poem 'The Story of Kimini,' 66. 
On Oxford, 459. 

On Receiving a Curious Shell and a Copy of Verses, 6. 
On Seeing a Lock of Milton's Hair, 67. 
On Seeing the Elgin Marbles, 63. 
On Sitting down to read ' King Lear ' once again, 69. 
On the Grasshopper and Cricket, 61. 
On the Sea, 64. 

On . ' Think not of it, sweet one, so,' 65. 

On Visiting the Tomb of Burns, 211. 
Otho the Great, 275. 

Party of Lovers, A, 458, 

Picture of Leander, On a, 66. 

Poems op 1818-1819, The, 192. 

Prophecy, A : To George Keats in America, 452. 

Psyche, Ode to, 249. 

Reynolds, John Hamilton, Epistle to, 431. 
Reynolds, John Hamilton, To, 70. 



INDEX OF TITLES 471 

Robin Hood, 70. 

Bonsard, Translation from a Sonnet of, 215. 

Sea, On the, 64. 

Sharing Eve's Apple, 451. 

' Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! ' 246. 

Sleep, To, 248. 

Sleep and Poetry, 29. 

Solitude, Sonnet to, 20. 

Some Ladies, To, 5. 

Song about Myself, A, 439. 

Songs : 

Daisy's Song, 428. 

Faery Songs, 246. 

Folly's Song, 428. 

' Hush, hush ! tread softly ! hush, hush, my dear,' 210. 

' I had a dove, and the sweet dove died,' 219. 

' The stranger lighted from his steed,' 429. 

Written on a blank page in Beaumont and Fletcher's Works, 
73. 
Sonnets : 

Addressed to Benjamin Robert Haydon, 57. 

' After dark vapours have oppress'd our plains,' 62. 

' As from the darkening gloom a silver dove,' 20. 

' Blue ! 't is the life of heaven, — the domain,' 75. 

Dream, A, after reading Dante's Episode of Paolo and Francesca, 
240. 

' Happy is England ! I could be content,' 61. 

* How many bards gild the lapses of time,' 13. 

Human Seasons, The, 76. 

' If by duU rhymes our English must be chain'd,' 251. 

' Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there,' 13. 

Last Sonnet, The, 410. 

' Oh ! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,' 22. 

On a Pictm-e of Leander, 66. 

On Fame, 247, 

On Fame, Anotlier, 248. 

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer, 15. 

On Hearing the Bagpipe and Seeing ' The Stranger ' played at In- 
verary, 445. 

On Leaving Some Friends at an Early Hour, 14. 

On Leigh Himt's Poem ' The Story of Rimini,' 66. 

On Seeing the Elgin Marbles, 63. 

On Sitting down to read ' King Lear ' once again, 69. 

On the Grasshopper and Cricket, 61. 

On the Sea, 64. 

On Visiting the Tomb of Burns, 211. 

' The day is gone and all its sweets are gone . ' 379. 



472 INDEX OF TITLES 

To , ' Had I a man's fair form,' 46. 

To a Cat, 459. 

To a Friend who sent me some Roses, 21. 

To a Lady seen for a Few Moments at Vauxhall, 215. 

To a Young Lady who sent me a Laurel Crown, 12. 

To Ailsa Rock, 211. 

To Byron, 3. 

To Chatterton, 2. 

To Fanny, 381. 

To G. A. W., 59. 

To George Keats, 458. 

To Haydon, 63. 

To Homer, 209. 

To John Hamilton Reynolds, 76. 

To Kosciusko, 58. 

To Leigh Hunt, Esq., 64. 

To my Brother George, 45. 

To my Brothers, 57. 

' To one who has been long in city pent,' 21. 

To Sleep, 248. 

To Solitude, 20. 

To Spenser, 72. 

To the Nile, 71. 

What the Thrush said, 75. 

' When I have fears that I may cease to be,' 67. 

' Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will tell, 238. 

Written in Answer to a Sonnet, 75. 

Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition, 60. 

Written in the Cottage where Bums was born, 212. 

Written on the blank space at the end of Chaucer's Tale of ' The 
Floure and the Lefe,' 62. 

Written on the Day that Mr. Leigh Himt left Prison, 8. 

Written upon the Top of Ben Nevis, 214. 
Specimen of an Induction to a Poem, 46. 
Spenser, Imitation of, 1. 
Spenser, To, 72. 
Spenserian Stanza, written at the close of Canto II., Book V., of ' The 

Faerie Queene,' 14. 
Spenserian Stanzas on Charles Armitage Brown, 456. 
Stanzas : ' In a drear-nigh ted December,' 59. 
Stanzas to Miss Wylie, 430. 
Supplementary Verse, 411. 

' The day is gone and all its sweets are gone,' 379. 

To , ' Had I a man's fair form,' 46. 

To , ' Hadst thou liv'd in days of old,' 18. 

To a Cat, 459. 

To a Friend who sent me some Roses, 21. 



INDEX OF TITLES 473 

To a Lady seen for a Few Moments at Vauxhall, 215. 

To a Young Lady who sent me a Laurel Crown, 12. 

To Ailsa Rock, 211. 

To Autumn, 377. 

To Byron, 3. 

To Chatterton, 2. 

To Fanny, 381. 

To G. A. W., 59. 

To George Keats, 458. 

To Haydon, 63. 

To Homer, 209. 

To Hope, 8. 

To John Hamilton Reynolds, 76. 

To Kosciusko, 58. 

To Leigh Hunt, Esq., 64. 

To my Brother George, 45. 

To my Brothers, 57. 

' To one who has been long in city pent,' 21. 

To Sleep, 248. 

To Solitude, 20. 

To Some Ladies, 5. 

To Spenser, 72. 

To the Nile, 72. 

To Thomas Keats, 442. 

Translation from a Somiet of Ronsard, 215. 

Two or Three Posies, 457. 

Vebses to Fanny Bra^^ts'e, 379. 

Verses written during a Tour in Scotland, 211. 

What the Thrush said, 75. 

' Where 's the Poet ? Show him ! show him,' 425. 

' Woman ! when I behold thee, flippant, vain,' 3. 

Written in Answer to a Sonnet, 75. 

Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition, 60. 

Written in the Cottage where Burns was born, 212. 

Written on the blank space at the end of Chaucer's Tale of ' The 

Floure and the Lefe,' 62. 
Written on the Day Mr. Leigh Hunt left Prison, 8. 
Written upon the Top of Ben Nevis, 214. 
Wylie, Miss, Stanzas to, 430. 



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